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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FOR    FORTY    YEARS    EDITOR    OF    HARPER  S    MAGAZINE 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

AND 

THE   NEW  LITERATURE 


BY 


HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN,  Litt.D.,  LL.D. 

author  ok 
"god  in  his  world"  and  "a  study  of  death" 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

M  C  M  V  1  I  I 


Copyriglif,  1908,  by  Harper  &  Brothkrs. 


All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1908. 


^o 


\'Y1 


vro 


CONTENTS 


PART   I 

THE    RELATION  OF    PERIODICAL   TO   GENERAL 

LITERATURE 

CHAP.  PAGE 

Introduction v 

I.  Early   Periodical  Literature 3 

II.  The   Didactic  Era 15 

III.  English    Periodical   Literature   in   the    Nine- 

teenth Century 27 

IV.  Eminent  Authors  in  Journalism 39 

V.  American   Periodicals 42 

VI.  The  American  Audience       56 

VII.  The  Scope  of  a  First-class  American  Magtazine  69 

VIII.  The  Passing  ok  Anonymity 80 

IX.  Prizes  of  Authorship 93 

X.  The    Modern    Writer's    Prosperity    with    His 

Audience 109 

XI.  Popularity       121 


PART    II 
THE    NEW    LITERATURE 

I.  Past  and  Present 135 

II.  What  is  Reality? 143 


2090550 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

III.  Creative  Values  in  Life  and  Literature     .     .  154 

IV.  Reaction  of  Genius  upon  the  World  ....  166 

V.  The  Departure  from  the  Victorian  Era     .     .  178 

VI.  Changes  in  Human  Nature 182 

VII.  The  New  Psychical  Era 193 

VIII.  The  First  Realism       209 

IX.  The  World  Sense 221 

X.  The  Hidden  Pattern 233 

XI.  The  Modern  Urbanity 248 

XII.  The  Inexplicable  Idealism 260 

XIII.  The  New  Art  of  Prose 272 

XIV.  Prospect  of  Imaginative  Literature    ....  284 
Index 299 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  writer  of  this  volume  has  had  two  objects 
in  view:  First,  to  show  the  intimate  rela- 
tions of  periodical  to  general  literature,  as 
to  authorship  and  aim ;  secondly,  to  present  certain 
characteristic  features  of  a  new  life  and  literature, 
beginning  two  generations  ago,  with  the  emergence, 
in  the  natural  course  of  evolution,  of  the  distinctively- 
modern  psychical  era. 

These  two  objects  are  closely  associated,  as  pe- 
riodical literature  has,  from  its  earliest  to  its  latest 
period,  not  only  reflected,  but  has  had  a  large  share 
in  initiating,  the  successive  variations  in  the  gen- 
eral evolution.  Our  consideration,  therefore,  while 
it  is  not  a  methodically  planned  treatise,  has  a  cer- 
tain unity  of  purpose.  It  is  limited  to  the  imagina- 
tive faculty  and  sensibility  as  manifest  in  the  very 
modern  life  and  literature  of  England  and  America, 
with  only  such  allusions  to  other  races  and  periods 
as  help  to  show  from  what  fashions  of  an  older  order 
our  modernity  is  a  departure.  It  is  the  editor  who 
speaks  throughout,  but  mainly  from  his  experience 
and  observation  in  the  open  field  here  chosen,  with 


INTRODUCTION 

little  reference  to  matters  directly  concerning  his 
own  or  the  contributors'  special  relations  to  maga- 
zine -  making  —  such  matters  belonging  properly  to 
a  wholly  different  kind  of  book  from  that  herein 
undertaken.  This  volume  is  made  up  largely  of 
selections  from  the  "Editor's  Study"  in  Harpers 
Magazine. 

In  Part  Firsi  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  give 
a  history  of  periodical  literature.  That  would  re- 
quire many  volumes.  Indeed,  there  is  no  semblance 
of  a  record  after  i860 — no  mention  of  such  important 
undertakings  as  Scribncr's,  which  afterward  became 
the  Century,  or  of  the  later  Scribner's,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  others  which,  though  of  brief  continuance, 
were,  in  their  time,  notable.  This  later  period  is 
well  within  the  memory  of  contemporary  readers 
in  all  its  aspects,  including  the  relation  to  these 
magazines  of  all  the  eminent  writers,  English  and 
American,  for  two  generations.  The  earlier  period 
is  less  known,  and  has,  therefore,  received  more  at- 
tention. Since  i860,  no  distinction,  as  to  quality 
or  as  to  any  substantial  values,  can  be  made  be- 
tween the  best  books  and  the  best  periodicals. 

More  consideration  has  been  given  in  this  volume 
to  life  than  to  literature.  Creative  genius  is  mani- 
fest in  life,  in  the  transformation  of  human  nature 
and  human  sensibility,  before  it  is  expressed  in 
literary  embodiment  and  interpretation.  Imagina- 
tive literature  is  closer  to  life  in  our  day  than  it  has 
ever  been  before,  essentially  a  part  of  it.     Genius, 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

which  is  only  another  name  for  the  creative  imag- 
ination, shaped  human  Hfe  before  there  was  art  or 
Hterature;  and,  in  the  evolution  of  genius,  the  varia- 
tions in  aesthetic  and  psychical  sensibility  are  the 
same  as  in  all  the  imaginative  creations  appealing 
to  that  sensibility. 

The  term  evolution  and  the  phraseology  applicable 
to  the  procedure  thus  named  have  come  into  gen- 
eral use,  very  well  serving  their  scientific  purpose. 
There  is  also  a  general  presumption,  quite  untenable, 
that  the  universe  is  planned,  and  that  evolution  is  its 
explanation.  Of  the  real  world  there  is  no  plan  and 
no  explanation.  We  speak  of  one  form  of  existence 
as  emerging  from  a  previous  form,  as  if  the  latest 
form  were  thus  accounted  for.  If  there  were  any 
accounting  for  anything,  it  would  seem  more  rea- 
sonable to  reverse  this  order  and  look  to  the  ulti- 
mate as  accounting  for  the  whole  series.  The  idea 
of  implication,  of  involution,  would  tend  to  occupy 
our  minds  to  the  exclusion  of  that  of  explication 
or  evolution.  All  such  terms  are  notional,  due  to 
limitations  incident  to  our  mental  constitution  or 
habit.  The  assumption  that  they  express  reality, 
if  persisted  in,  leads  us  to  the  conception  of  a  me- 
chanical universe,  to  a  sterile  speculation. 

Putting  aside  these  notions  and  accepting  the 
manifestations  of  life  in  living  terms,  we  are  in  a 
real  world.  Instead  of  making  formulas  and  fancy- 
ing that  we  are  thus  explaining  things,  we  behold 
the  reality  and  take  it,  in  all  its  inexplicableness. 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

The  formal  phrases,  "the  homogeneous  becoming 
the  heterogeneous,"  "speciaHzation,"  "the  tendency 
to  increased  variation  at  every  successive  stage," 
and  so  on,  are  translated,  and  we  see  life  as  creative, 
fertile,  abundant,  and  ever  more  and  more  abound- 
ing. We  take  the  evil  along  with  the  good,  making 
no  problem  of  their  reconcilement,  since  they  are 
elements  in  a  natural  solution,  and  we  escape  those 
fantastic  labels  of  "optimist"  and  "pessimist." 

This  way  of  seeing  life  and  of  representing  it  in 
imaginative  literature  we  call  the  new  realism.  By 
way  of  contrast,  considerable  attention  has  been 
given  to  primitive  realism,  but  we  trust  our  self- 
indulgence  in  dwelling  upon  the  earliest  workings 
of  the  human  imagination,  which  have  for  us  a 
fascination  in  inverse  ratio  to  any  possible  definite 
knowledge  of  them,  may  not  impose  too  severe  a 
tax  upon  the  reader's  patience.  The  period  sep- 
arating that  old  from  the  new  realism  is  so  complex 
and  so  vast — covering  nearly  the  whole  of  human 
history — that  no  writer  could  attempt  even  a  con- 
cisely comprehensive  treatment.  The  sophistica- 
tions abounding  in  this  period  have  been  considered 
to  some  extent,  also  the  affectations,  pedantries, 
disguises,  pomps,  and  other  antique  fashions  of  life 
and  literature,  in  order  to  show  how  far  removed 
from  this  unreal  investiture  is  the  plainly  human 
guise  of  life  and  literature  in  our  own  time.  But, 
along  with  the  disclosure  of  these  errancies  and 
distortions  there  has  been  ample  recognition  of  the 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

essential  values  and  charms  of  the  old  order,  whose 
greatness  compels  our  admiration  and  whose  sin- 
cerities, however  masked,  appeal  to  our  affections. 

To  some  readers  it  may  seem  strange  that  the 
beginning  of  the  new  psychical  era  and  of  the  new 
literature  should  have  been  given  so  recent  a  date 
as  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  and  that  the  fi- 
nality of  the  break  with  the  past  in  the  present 
generation  should  be  so  strongly  emphasized.  So 
quick  and  complete  a  transformation  of  human  nat- 
ure and  sensibility  is  not  easily  credited — especially 
by  those  who  persistently  hold  that  these  are  in 
all  ages  essentially  the  same.  There  has,  indeed, 
been  nothing  added  to  human  nature.  It  has  re- 
ceived no  new  endowment;  but  the  permissive  con- 
ditions for  this  remarkable  renascence  were  almost 
suddenly  apparent,  and  the  change,  speedy  and 
radical  as  it  was,  seemed  natural  and  inevitable. 
The  Second  Part  of  this  volume  is  devoted  entirely 
to  the  new  psychical  era  w^hich  was  ushered  in  by 
this  quiet  renascence,  and  to  its  manifestations  in 
life  and  literature,  little  reference  being  made  to 
poetry,  because  it  is  in  imaginative  prose  that  the 
unprecedented  features  disclosed  have  been  de- 
veloped. 

In  tracing  the  evolution  of  the  imagination,  the 
writer  has  had  in  view  only  a  clearer  indication  of 
the  tendencies  which  distinguish  present  from  past 
literature.  He  Hoes  not  claim  that  these  tendencies 
have  resulted  in  a  greater  literature;    he  has  only 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

tried  to  show  wherein  it  is  a  new  literature — of  what 
traits  it  has  been  divested  and  what  is  its  fresh  in- 
vestiture. In  portraying  the  contrast,  he  might  very 
easily  be  misunderstood  as  framing  an  indictment 
against  the  whole  past  of  humanity,  since  the  salient 
features  of  this  past,  brought  out  in  the  contrast, 
seem  to  boldly  intimate  an  elaborately  extravagant 
masquerade.  The  very  terms  which  inevitably  sug- 
gest themselves  for  the  apt  expression  of  this  in- 
timation are  those  which  imply  aversion  on  our  part, 
else  they  would  be  untrue  to  our  modem  sense  of 
life.  But  they  do  not  imply  either  contempt  or  con- 
demnation. Symbols  which  are  alien  to  us  have  had 
their  significance;  and  what  seems  to  us  unreal  and 
even  incapable  of  realization,  in  any  true  harmony  of 
life,  has  been  at  least  relatively  real,  though  in  a 
false  perspective.  Perversity  is  not  insincerity.  It 
is,  from  our  point  of  view,  quite  impossible  for  us 
to  understand  how  anybody  could  ever  have  been 
burned  alive  for  heresy ;  but  we  need  to  comprehend 
even  so  ghastly  a  horror  as  the  sequel  of  an  attitude 
just  the  opposite  of  ours.  We  make  allowance  for  a 
vast  distortion  of  view,  but  we  are  not  justified  'n 
any  attempt  at  apology;  he  who  would  venture  to 
patronize  the  past  convicts  himself  of  folly. 

We  are  not  myth  -  makers,  but  we  can  see  what 
an  advance  myth-making  was  beyond  the  primitive 
naturalism  from  which  it  emerged.  So  with  every 
stage  of  the  evolution — it  was  an  advance;  and  in 
every  period  there  are  abundant  phenomena  for  our 


INTRODUCTION 

sympathetic  interpretation,  appealing  to  our  sense 
of  the  beautiful  and  to  our  admiration.  Of  our  own 
period,  also,  we  say — it  is  an  advance.  As  to  its  at- 
titude, we  may  say  that  it  is  the  ultimate  advance. 
What  its  possibilities  are,  when  this  attitude  reaches 
its  consummation  by  a  universal  acceptance,  no  one 
can  predict.  Present  accomplishments  are  at  least 
interesting  enough  to  pique  expectation,  at  the  same 
time  guarding  us  against  the  illusory  hope  of  ever 
again  beholding  the  kind  of  greatness  displayed  by 
the  overshadowing  might  of  past  exemplars. 

Some  attention  has  been  given  to  features  dis- 
tinctive of  the  new  art  as  well  as  to  those  of  the  new 
literature — especially  in  the  chapter  on  "The  New 
Art  of  Prose."  But  a  special  consideration  of  what 
is  called  "the  literary  art,"  dealing  with  technical 
methods  in  style  and  construction,  does  not  properly 
come  within  the  scope  of  the  present  work.  Equally 
foreign  to  a  work  treating  of  purely  imaginative 
values  would  be  the  consideration  of  ethical  pur- 
pose, except  by  implication:  it  being  understood 
that  no  idealism  is  consistent  with  degeneracy. 


PART     1 

THE    RELATION   OF   PERIODICAL   TO 
GENERAL   LITERATURE 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

AND    THE     NEW     LITERATURE 
CHAPTER  I 

EARLY    PERIODICAL    LITERATURE 

IN  the  history  of  literature  no  subject  is  more  in- 
teresting or  more  pertinent  to  the  whole  course 
of  development  than  that  of  periodical  publi- 
cation. 

Our  modern  idea  of  publication  is  generally  con- 
fined to  the  issue  and  circulation  of  printed  works, 
excepting  in  the  case  of  plays  that  have  publicity 
only  as  they  are  acted,  and  of  musical  compositions 
which  are  known  to  the  general  public  only  as  they 
are  rendered  by  musicians.  This  exceptional  form 
of  publication  was  the  original  and  only  form  in 
the  most  ancient  times,  when  there  was  not  even  the 
written  symbol,  and  publication  was  through  oral 
tradition.  It  is,  moreover,  the  only  form  which  to- 
day reaches,  as  it  has  in  all  ages  reached,  the  illiter- 
ate, transcending,  therefore,  by  direct  and  universal 
'  3 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

appeal,  the  device  of  written  word  and  of  typog- 
raphy. Before  these  devices  existed  all  speech  was 
simply  phonetic,  and  unembarrassed  by  orthoepic 
puzzles  and  ambiguities. 

Such  literature  as  there  was  before  letters — ^in  the 
martial  and  religious  lyric,  the  heroic  epic,  the  ele- 
mentary drama,  and  the  impassioned  speech — was 
closely  associated  with  religious  ritual  and  with 
regularly  recurrent  festivals,  themselves  following 
the  routine  of  nature  in  days,  seasons,  years,  and 
lustres,  and  was  therefore  to  a  large  extent  periodical 
in  its  communication  to  the  people.  The  earliest 
folk-lore  and  poetry,  as  represented  in  Hesiod's 
Works  and  Days,  were  calendary,  with  near  relation 
to  agriculture,  which,  like  the  gathering  of  simples 
and  the  magical  rites  of  healing,  was  carried  on  with 
a  superstitious  regard  to  the  phases  of  the  moon. 
Probably,  as  soon  as  printed  publications  began  to 
circulate  among  the  people,  the  most  fascinating  of 
periodicals  was  a  kind  of  farmer's  almanac. 

We  doubtless  underestimate  the  number  of  read- 
ers before  the  invention  of  types;  and  the  number 
was  comparatively  greater  in  some  periods  of  ancient 
culture  than  at  any  time  in  mediaeval  history  before 
the  Renaissance.  It  must  have  been  so  in  the  time 
when  it  could  be  said  that  "Of  the  making  of  many 
books  there  is  no  end."  In  Rome,  even  before  the 
Augustan  age,  intelligent  copyists  were  numerous. 
Julius  Cffisar,  who  wrote  his  Commentaries  to  con- 

4 


EARLY   PERIODICAL    LITERATURE 

ciliate  political  favor,  had  probably  no  difficulty  in 
securing  for  them  a  sufficiently  general  circulation  to 
effect  his  purpose.  In  the  next  generation  any 
writer  who  could  command  the  services  of  hundreds 
of  well-trained  slaves  could  have  put  upon  the 
market  an  edition  of  his  latest  work  larger  than  the 
usual  first  edition  of  books  issued  to-day,  and  in  less 
time.  But  for  this  cheap  skilled  labor  the  hand 
printing-press  would  have  come  into  use.  It  would 
have  been  as  easy  to  make  metal  types  as  to  engrave 
signet-rings. 

It  was  not  alone  the  cheapness  of  labor  that  met 
the  ancient  literary  need.  Labor  was  cheap  enough 
in  the  fifteenth  century  when  types  came  into  use. 
But  there  was  at  this  later  date  no  such  abundant 
supply  of  intelligent  servants  who  could  read  and 
write  as  that  derived  from  the  great  body  of  slaves 
in  the  palmiest  days  of  the  Roman  Empire.  It 
was  largely  due  to  the  intelligence  and  fidelity  of 
this  ingeniously  efficient  class,  whose  dependent 
condition  was  its  misfortune  (as  in  the  case  of 
captives  taken  in  battle),  rather  than  its  fault, 
that  the  stability  of  the  empire  was  so  long  main- 
tained, despite  the  unworthiness  of  its  masters. 

The  medicEval  monks  were  copyists,  and  there  was 
a  host  of  them ;  but  they  hardly  served  the  interests 
of  a  free  literature ;  they  were  not  likely  to  copy  the 
works  of  Chaucer,  Dante,  Petrarch,  or  Boccaccio, 
whatever  share  they  may  have  had  in  the  preserva- 
tion of  classic  lore,  which  was  almost  entirely  Latin. 

5 


MAGAZINE  WRITING 

Printing  was  a  forced  invention,  rendered  necessary 
rather  by  the  illiteracy  of  craftsmen  than  by  the 
demand  of  a  large  reading  class.  In  fact,  it  was 
printing  that  first  created  any  considerable  general 
demand  for  books. 

In  this  situation,  which  lasted  for  a  century  and 
a  half  after  the  invention  of  the  printing-press,  there 
was  no  call  for  periodical  publications  or  even  for 
newspapers.  There  was,  indeed,  no  publication  of 
anything  to  the  people  except  in  the  ancient  sense — 
through  recitation,  oration,  the  rubric  and  stage 
representation.  The  earliest  newspaper  printed  in 
Europe  was  the  Frankfurter  Journal,  sl  weekly,  in 
1 615.  A  year  after  the  landing  of  the  Mayflower 
followed  a  similar  publication  in  London,  called  the 
Weekly  News,  and  not  until  more  than  seventy  years 
later  was  there  an  English  daily  paper.  Caxton  had 
printed  books  at  Westminster  more  than  two  cen- 
turies earlier — an  interval  stretching  from  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses  to  the  Revolution  of  1688,  including  the 
mighty  literature  produced  by  the  great  Elizabethan 
dramatists,  with  Shakespeare  at  their  head,  by  More 
and  Bacon  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  by  Spenser  and 
Milton  and  Bunyan.  Yet  in  all  this  glorious  period 
no  daily  newspaper!  The  English  language  had 
come  of  age.  Constitutional  liberty,  in  theory  at 
least,  had  been  achieved.  Yet  for  the  great  mass  of 
the  English  people,  lacking  manhood  suffrage,  and 
having  no  direct  responsibility  for  the  conduct  of 

6 


EARLY   PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

public  affairs,  there  had  been  developed  no  regular 
and  organized  channels  of  political  expression. 

The  formation  of  something  which  may  properly 
be  called  public  opinion  and  the  establishment  of 
means  for  its  expression  rapidly  progressed  during 
the  closing  years  of  the  seventeenth  century,  so  that 
in  1703  daily  journalism  became  a  successful  venture. 
Then  began  the  era  of  the  brilliant  and  effective 
publicist  in  England,  nearly  a  century  before  there 
was  anything  like  it  on  the  Continent. 

There  had  been  masterly  pamphleteering  as  early 
as  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  most 
eminent  examples  of  which  were  from  the  pen  of  John 
Milton,  mainly  in  the  service  of  the  Commonwealth. 
This  method  of  appealing  to  intelligent  public  opinion 
was  the  only  one  possible  at  that  time,  and  it  was 
pursued  with  still  greater  vigor  after  the  advent  of 
the  daily  press,  because  of  the  constantly  increas- 
ing number  of  readers.  Defoe  and  Swift  showered 
pamphlets  upon  the  British  nation;  but  these  dis- 
tinguished WTiters  with  even  more  zest  availed  of  the 
larger  opportunities  afforded  by  periodical  publica- 
tions. Probably  no  one  man  ever  wielded  the  power 
of  the  press  with  such  effect  as  Swift  did  in  the 
Examiner  during  the  time  of  his  connection  with  it. 

Defoe  had,  in  1704,  started  a  periodical  of  his  own. 
The  Review,  he  being  at  the  time  a  political  prisoner 
in  Newgate.  He  contributed  all  the  matter — essays 
on  politics  and  commerce — himself,  and  supplement- 

7 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

ed  each  number,  of  which  three  were  published  every 
week,  with  "The  Scandalous  Club,"  dealing  with 
manners  and  morals — a  precursor  of  the  Tatler  and 
Spectator,  w^hich  appeared  soon  afterward.  His  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,  after  its  remarkable  success  in  book 
form,  was  published  serially  in  Heathcote's  Intelli- 
gencer, being  the  first  instance  of  a  feuilleton  on 
record.  The  same  fortune — that  is,  serial  after 
book  publication — happened  in  the  next  century  to 
Thomson's  Seasons  and  to  Gray's  Elegy.  We  have 
witnessed  such  a  reversal  of  the  usual  sequence  even 
in  our  own  time  in  the  case  of  several  successful 
novels,  some  of  which  were  originally  published 
serially  in  first-class  magazines,  then  in  book  form, 
and  again  as  newspaper  feuilletons.  As  in  the  case 
of  Robinson  Crusoe,  these  later  instances  indicate  the 
diverse  strata  of  an  author's  possible  audience  and 
help  to  explain  the  ever-increasing  variety  of  peri- 
odicals. 

The  intimate  association  with  the  earliest  period- 
icals of  two  such  writers  as  Defoe  and  Swift,  the 
authors  of  the  tw^o  most  popular  tales  not  only  of 
their  own  but  of  all  time,  has  had  its  counterpart  in 
every  subsequent  period  of  English  and  American 
literature.  Dryden  was  the  last  of  the  illustrious 
writers  since  Chaucer  who  were  denied  such  associa- 
tion, for  though  in  his  last  days  he  was  a  frequenter 
of  Will's  Coffee-House,  he  did  not  live  quite  long 
enough  to  witness  the  triumph  of  coffee-house  litera- 

8 


EARLY   PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

ture  in  the  Tatler,  Spectator,  and  Guardian,  to  which 
Addison,  Steele,  Swift,  and  Pope  were  contributors. 

Before  the  eighteenth  century  a  writer,  however 
great,  who  did  not  produce  plays  could  not  depend 
upon  literature  for  a  livelihood.  By  The  Beggar's 
Opera,  Gay  made  more  than  seven  thousand  pounds, 
while  the  "exquisite"  Herrick,  though  he  wrote  im- 
mortal verse,  would  have  starved  but  for  the  living 
of  Dean  Prior,  given  him  by  Charles  I.  Sufficient 
influence  at  court,  or  the  substantial  aid  of  an  aris- 
tocratic patron,  was  necessary  to  enable  the  writer 
to  pursue  literature  at  all,  and  the  politic  conciliation 
of  such  favors  involved  corresponding  obligations 
and  sometimes  humiliating  compromises.  The  stage 
alone  afforded  profit,  with  comparative  independence, 
and  the  widest  possible  publicity.  Yet  the  ribald 
public  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration  was  an  exacting 
tyrant,  demanding  of  playwrights  something  worse 
than  political  accommodation — the  prostitution  of 
their  art  to  a  corrupted  taste.  Even  Dry  den,  orig- 
inally a  Puritan,  in  the  early  period  of  his  career  as 
a  dramatist  submitted  as  supinely  as  Gay  did  to 
this  degradation. 

The  dependence  upon  royal  favor  and  political 
patronage  was  even  more  extensive  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  because  there  was  a  larger  number  of  brill- 
iant writers,  whose  wit  and  versatile  talent  w^ere  of 
such  avail  and  so  necessary  to  party  leaders  that  the 
obligation  was  mutual  and  so  equal  that  it  lost  its 

9 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

sting.  Of  all  the  postulants  for  official  favor,  writers 
like  Addison  must  have  been  the  most  independent, 
such  service  as  they  rendered  being  genial  and  en- 
gaging their  eager  enthusiasm.  Politics  was  the 
polite  art  of  the  time,  and  polite  literature  was  will- 
ingly subservient  to  it,  but  never  so  absorbed  by  the 
service  as  to  diminish  its  equally  alluring  offices  in 
the  cause  of  polite  criticism  and  polite  manners, 
which  occupied  a  large  proportion  of  space  in  the 
coffee-house  periodicals.  Here  it  was  that  Addison's 
critical  appreciation  of  Milton  established  for  his  gen- 
eration a  just  estimate  of  the  old  poet;  but  it  was 
contemporary  letters,  as  everything  else  contem- 
porary, that  chiefly  engrossed  attention  in  an  age 
which,  taking  itself  rather  seriously  in  a  stately 
fashion,  is  looked  back  upon  as  itself  an  elegant 
comedy,  witty,  satirical,  and  gayly  self-complacent. 

The  Tatler,  Spectator,  and  a  hundred  other  pub- 
lications of  a  like  character,  though  most  of  these 
were  political  rather  than  literary,  which  sprang  up 
before  Johnson  started  his  short-lived  Rambler,  el 
generation  later,  had  the  polite  town  for  audience, 
including  the  women  of  society.  The  urban  limita- 
tion was  due  to  the  urbanity  of  the  literature.  There 
was  a  considerable  reading  public  in  England  to 
whom  this  kind  of  literature  did  not  appeal,  who 
were  readers  of  Bunyan,  and  whose  chief  induce- 
ment to  learn  to  read  at  all  was  a  religious  rather  than 
any  worldly  motive.     The  interest  in  politics  among 

lO 


EARLY   PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

the  people  was,  as  it  had  long  been,  keener  and  more 
general  in  England  than  in  any  other  land.  It  was 
still  largely  met  by  tracts  and  pamphlets,  but  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  century  it  was  stimulated  and 
abundantly  nourished  by  the  press.  In  no  other 
country  had  there  been  established  so  many  ex- 
cellent schools,  endowed  with  special  reference  to 
indigent  students,  for  whom  ample  provision  was 
made,  unless  they  happened  to  be  of  Roman  Catholic 
parentage.  But  elegant  literature  flourished  only  in 
London,  or  in  such  fashionable  resorts  as  Bath  and 
Deal,  which  in  this  regard,  as  in  their  social  aspects, 
but  reflected  the  lustre  of  the  metropolis. 

The  best  essays  of  the  early  part  of  the  century, 
those  of  the  Spectator  type,  seem  to  us  extremely 
modern  rather  than  modish — modish  as  that  time 
was.  Simple  and  idiomatic  in  expression,  they  were 
quite  free  from  the  artificialities  and  affectations 
of  contemporaneous  verse.  They  sounded  a  new 
note,  and  had  a  lasting  influence  upon  all  subse- 
quent English  literature.  Excepting  as  an  instance 
of  striking  precocity,  we  do  not  wonder  that  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Montagu,  the  "Queen  of  the  Blues,"  had 
before  her  ninth  year  copied  the  whole  of  the  Spec- 
tator. In  few  novels  of  our  time  is  there  so  much 
of  genuine  character-making  as  there  is  in  many 
of  these  essays.  From  Addison's  "  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley"  and  "Willy  Wimble,"  and  Steele's  me- 
moir of  "Dick  Eastcourt,"  it  is  but  a  step  to  the 
novels  of  Richardson  and  Fielding. 

n 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

We  also  easily  pass  from  the  periodicals  which 
published  these  essays  to  the  earliest  type  of  a 
monthly  magazine,  appealing  to  a  general  audience 
through  miscellaneous  contributions  in  prose  and 
verse.  The  germ  of  this  type  was  Peter  Motteux's 
the  Gentleman  s  Journal,  established  in  i6gi;  but 
there  was  no  complete  or  successful  example  of  it 
until  Edward  Cave,  under  the  name  of  "  Sylvanus 
Urban,  Gent.,"  established  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine 
about  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  Steele  started  the 
Tatler.  This  magazine  was  continuously  published 
for  more  than  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  years. 

Cave,  whose  publishing  house  at  St.  John's  Gate 
was  also  his  residence,  offered  prizes  for  poems  on 
themes  suggested  by  him — as  high  as  ;^5o  for  the 
best  on,  say,  such  a  subject  as  "Life,  Death,  Judg- 
ment, Heaven,  and  Hell."  "Sylvanus  Urban"  had 
no  literary  distinction,  and  by  all  accounts  was  not 
especially  "urbane";  but  he  succeeded  in  making  a 
successful  miscellany,  one  of  the  most  striking  feat- 
ures of  which  was  the  reporting  of  parliamentary 
debates — a  novelty  in  the  journalism  of  that  time. 

The  fame  of  the  magazine  had  reached  Samuel 
Johnson  at  Lichfield,  where  he  had  instituted  an 
academy;  and  when,  a  few  years  later,  he,  with 
David  Garrick,  his  most  promising  pupil,  went  to 
London  to  try  his  fortunes  there  in  the  literary  field, 
St.  John's  Gate  was  to  him  like  the  candle  to  the 
moth,  and  he  was  used,  shyly  and  afar  off,  to  gaze 
upon  the  somewhat  stately  portal  with  the  deepest 

12 


EARLY   PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

reverence.  In  1738  he  became  the  coadjutor  of  Mr. 
Cave.  Doctor  Johnson  was  thus  the  first  eminent 
literary  man  to  become  closely  associated  with  a 
popular  monthly  magazine.  Popular  it  might  well 
be  called  for  those  days,  having,  according  to  Doctor 
Johnson,  a  sale  of  ten  thousand  copies.  The  Spec- 
tator in  its  best  days,  before  its  first  series  was  para- 
lyzed by  the  stamp  tax  of  17 12,  had  a  circulation  of 
only  three  thousand. 

The  population  of  London  at  this  time  was  six 
hundred  thousand.  How  small  a  part  of  this  was 
included  in  what  may  be  called  the  polite  town  may 
be  inferred  from  the  limited  audience  which  Addi- 
son addressed,  but  still  more  significantly  from  the 
fact  that  theatrical  representations  reached  only 
about  twelve  thousand.  It  was  therefore  a  feather 
in  Johnson's  cap  that  he  brought  the  circulation  of 
Cave's  magazine  (1740-43)  up  to  fifteen  thousand 
by  his  version  of  the  current  "  Parliamentary  De- 
bates," which  was  largely  a  work  of  the  imagination, 
since,  while  he  gave  the  veritable  substance,  he 
clothed  it  in  his  own  magniloquent  language.  Cave 
celebrated  his  good-fortune,  according  to  Hawkins, 
"  by  buying  an  old  coach  and  a  pair  of  older  horses." 
Johnson's  tender  conscience,  when  he  learned  that 
the  parliamentary  speeches  were  taken  for  genuine, 
led  him  to  discontinue  their  publication. 

Light  literature  could  hardly  be  expected  from  a 
magazine  conducted  by  either  Mr.  Cave  or  Doctor 
Johnson;  indeed,  it  is  only  within  our  own  memory 

13 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

that  the  antiquarian  features  of  this  periodical  were 
set  aside;  but  it  was  lighter  than  could  be  found  in 
any  other  miscellany  of  the  time,  and  within  its  first 
years  it  had  a  score  of  imitators. 

Thus  was  the  monthly  magazine,  which  has  been 
for  nearly  two  hundred  years  one  of  the  most  char- 
acteristic features  of  English  literature,  auspiciously 
started  upon  its  career. 

Periodical  literature,  in  its  very  beginning,  ac- 
complished for  the  writer  one  very  important  result. 
It  enabled  him  to  secure  at  least  partial  indepen- 
dence of  patronage  without  recourse  to  play-writing. 
The  novel,  which  was  its  natural  offspring,  and 
which,  from  the  first,  was  a  profitable  undertaking, 
helped  to  complete  the  emancipation.  Richard- 
son's Pamela,  the  earliest  society  novel,  tedious  as 
it  may  seem  to  us,  appealed  to  the  sympathies  of 
every  class  in  Europe,  and  established  a  new  school 
of  foreign  as  well  as  of  domestic  fiction.  The  novel 
and  the  monthly  magazine  emerged  during  the  same 
generation.  Together  with  the  polite  essay,  they 
helped  to  abolish  pedantry,  and  we  may  justly  say 
that  they  brought  the  development  of  modern  Eng- 
lish prose  literature  to  a  degree  of  finished  grace  and 
elegance  not  hitherto  reached  even  in  the  noble 
examples  furnished  by  Bacon,  Taylor,  Milton,  and 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  who  wrote  as  men  must  write 
who  have  not  been  brought  into  intimate  accord 
with  the  idiomatic  expression  of  a  general  audience. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE     DIDACTIC     ERA 

POPE'S  succession  to  Dryden,  who  made  such  a 
point  of  "  wit-writing,"  was  hneal  and  natural. 
He  was  a  boy  of  twelve  when  Dryden  died,  but 
before  that,  while  studying  with  a  priest  in  London, 
since  his  religious  faith  debarred  him  from  the  school 
privileges  of  Protestant  youth,  he  had  sometimes 
crept  into  Will's  Coffee-House  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
the  older  poet,  who  was  also  much  the  greater  poet 
— especially  in  his  later  career,  after  he  had  turned 
from  his  French  models  to  Shakespeare  and  to 
Nature  for  his  inspiration.  The  pupil  so  far  out- 
did the  master  in  wit-writing  as  to  leave  behind 
and  out  of  sight  every  natural  emotion.  The  secret 
of  his  domination  of  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was  his  superficial  didacticism,  exquisitely 
adapted  to  a  polished  age,  poignantly  satirical,  but 
as  deftly  disposed  as  the  turns  of  a  lady's  fan  or 
the  steps  of  a  minuet. 

Johnson's  didacticism,  which  gave  him  an  equal 
dominion  over  the  second  half  of  the  century,  was 
of  another  sort — distinctly  original  as  well  as  more 

J5 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

serious  and  sincere.  The  ore  of  Shaftesbury's  phi- 
losophy was  necessary  to  Pope's  shining  coins  of 
wisdom,  but  Johnson  borrowed  from  nobody,  at 
least  from  no  contemporary,  while  others — even  so 
eminent  a  man  as  Joshua  Reynolds — were  his  con- 
fessed debtors.  He  made  concessions  to  the  age; 
courtliness  was  not  difficult  to  him — he  put  on  a 
scarlet  coat  when  attending  the  performance  of  his 
tragedy;  and  pomp  was  only  too  easy.  He  was 
deeply  religious,  but  no  Pharisee,  as  is  shown  by  his 
tolerance  of  mirth -making  and  by  his  friendships 
with  Savage  and  Beauclerc.  He  had  a  large  heart, 
as  expansive  as  his  vocabulary;  large  graciousness, 
if  few  graces ;  was  a  lover  of  ceremony,  and  doubtless 
never  interrupted  the  "exercises  of  the  fan."  Still, 
we  wonder  how  in  the  literary  circles  of  the  metrop- 
olis he  secured  and  retained  to  the  end  of  his  life  the 
undisputed  position  of  dictator.  Certainly  very  im- 
portant concessions  must  have  been  made  by  the 
age  to  him;  and  quite  as  certainly  these  imply  a 
considerable,  if  not  radical,  change  in  the  mind,  if 
not  in  the  heart,  of  polite  London. 

The  demand  for  didacticism  is  what  mainly  fixes 
our  attention  in  this  whole  eighteenth-century  com- 
edy, in  which  contradictory  elements  are  so  strangely 
commingled.  In  the  history  of  the  preceding  cen- 
tury our  wonder  has  not  ceased  that  the  Common- 
wealth could  have  been  established  before  we  are 
equally  surprised  to  see  it  so  easily  and  utterly 

i6 


THE   DIDACTIC    ERA 

abolished.  But  that  which  made  the  Common- 
wealth possible — something  which  appears  recur- 
rently in  the  whole  woof  of  English  history,  and 
which  is  deeper  than  Puritanism  or  Non-con- 
formism — still  remained  the  leaven  of  the  public 
thought,  working  beneath  every  compromise  framed 
for  peaceful  settlement.  If  we  define  this  tenacious 
element  in  political  terms,  as  most  often  its  repre- 
sentatives were  wont  to  define  it,  forthwith  it  is 
seen  to  be  first  of  all  religious.  The  ghosts  of  Knox 
and  Cromwell  and  Bunyan  and  Milton  would  have 
risen  out  of  the  dust  of  any  great  conflict  in  the 
centuries  after  them,  and  to  every  generation  after 
them  came  the  "Serious  Call,"  which  had  its  first 
utterance  ages  ago  in  the  voice  of  John  the  Baptist. 
But  in  the  eighteenth  century  there  was  no  dust- 
raising  conflict;  one  blast  from  any  really  prophetic 
trumpet  would  have  crumbled  the  whole  dainty 
and  fantastic  fabric.  Deism  was  fashionable,  and 
in  such  a  society  the  conventional  moralist  w^as  in 
demand ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  century  the  town 
wanted  a  more  positive  didactician  than  Pope  had 
been.  This  they  got  in  Johnson — a  violently  weak 
preceptor.  Literature  at  the  same  time  gained  in 
him  a  violently  weak  critic.  He  swept  everything 
before  him  without  smashing  any  precious  tradi- 
tional furniture.  He  suited  all  classes.  No  Non- 
conformist could  complain  of  a  man  who  opened  his 
most  important  literary  undertakings  with  prayer, 
and  who  had  no  hesitation  in  branding  the  scepti- 

17 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

cal  Bolingbroke  as  a  "scoundrel" ;  and  his  persistent 
Toryism  endeared  him  to  courtiers  and  conserva- 
tives. In  the  assembHes  of  the  "  Blue-stockings"  he 
reigned  supreme. 

Johnson's  most  characteristic  essays  were  pub- 
lished in  the  Rambler,  which  he  started  in  1750 
and  concluded  in  1752.  It  was  published  twice  a 
week,  and  all  but  four  or  five  of  the  numbers  were 
written  by  Johnson.  Samuel  Richardson,  the  nov- 
elist, was  one  of  the  outside  contributors;  the 
others  were  women.  The  collection  of  these  essays 
in  six  volumes  passed  through  twelve  editions  in 
London  alone,  and  was  considered  by  the  author's 
admirers  superior  to  anything  in  periodical  litera- 
ture, the  more  judicious  of  them  with  evident  re- 
luctance excepting  some  numbers  of  the  Spectator! 
Johnson  himself,  more  generous  as  well  as  juster, 
said:  "Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style, 
familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  osten- 
tatious, must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  vol- 
umes of  Addison." 

The  industrious  Doctor  was  at  the  same  time  en- 
gaged upon  his  English  Dictionary,  the  exactions 
of  which  led  to  the  abrupt  termination  of  the  Ram- 
bler, but  he  found  time  for  occasional  contributions 
in  the  same  didactic  vein  to  the  Adventurer,  estab- 
lished by  his  friend  and  imitator.  Dr.  John  Hawkes- 
worth,  assisted  by  Richard  Bathurst,  a  physician, 
whom  Johnson  most  dearly  loved,  and  Dr.  Joseph 

18 


THE   DIDACTIC   ERA 

Warton.  The  essays  in  the  Rambler,  and  the  Dic- 
tionary, which  was  completed  in  1755,  fully  estab- 
lished Johnson's  reputation.  As  preceptor  and 
critic  he  met  the  exacting  but  superficial  and  lim- 
ited needs  of  his  own  time,  though  he  met  those  of 
no  later  generation.  He  had  no  profound  compre- 
hension of  life  or  of  literature,  but  within  his  limi- 
tations his  logical  analysis  was  accurate  and  his 
apprehension  quick  and  vivid.  Without  charm,  sen- 
tentious beyond  any  other  writer,  he  had  a  grave 
felicity  of  expression.  He  and  the  versatile  Garrick, 
the  vagabond  Goldsmith,  and  the  polite  Chester- 
field were  characteristic  types,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  made  the  fortunes  of  a  novel.  As  de- 
picted in  Boswell's  pages,  they  are  more  interesting 
than  the  persons  in  any  society  fiction  of  Fielding 
or  Richardson.  His  levees,  in  w^hich,  from  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon — in  his  later  years  his  usual 
hour  of  rising — until  four,  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
receiving  his  intimate  acquaintances  and  such  un- 
known scribblers  as  chose  to  call  upon  him,  would 
have  furnished  Smollett  with  material,  of  another 
kind,  but  as  interesting  as  that  obtained  from  as- 
sociation with  his  companions  of  the  Fleet.  But, 
while  in  many  ways  appealing  to  humorous  sensi- 
bility, Johnson  was  not  a  successful  humorist  even 
in  his  more  leisurely  days  when,  in  1758,  he  started 
the  Idler,  having  in  view  essays  in  a  lighter  vein. 
He  was  assisted  in  this  undertaking  by  contribu- 
tions from  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and  Bennet  Langton. 
i  19 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Johnson  had  thought  of  devoting  his  riper  years 
to  a  periodical  which  should  be  called  the  Bihlio- 
theque,   and   be  mainly  a  review  of  contemporary 
Continental  literature.     The  project  was  abandoned, 
but  it  is  interesting  as  a  reversion  to  the  earliest 
type  of  the  English  literary  periodical  toward  the 
end    of   the   seventeenth  century  —  literary  in  the 
bibliographical    sense    and    intended    only    for    the 
learned.     About  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury this  type  had  come  to  have  a  popular  develop- 
ment.    The   Museum  was   a   literary   magazine   as 
well  as  a  review.     The  Monthly  Review,  started  by 
Ralph  Griffiths  in  1749,  was  the  first  to  assume  the 
distinctly  modern  style  of  such  publications,   and 
endured    for    nearly    a    century.     It    represented 
Whiggism    and    Non-conformism.     The    Tory    and 
Church   interest   established   its   rival,    the   Critical 
Review,  which  was  edited  by  Smollett,  the  novelist, 
supported  by  Johnson,  and  by  Robertson,  the  his- 
torian.    Toward  the  end  of  the  century  these  re- 
views increased  in  number,  and,  whatever  partisan 
or  religious  interests  they  stood  for,  were  always 
the   dependencies   of    their    publishers,    tenders   to 
their  business.     The   first   critical    periodical    of   a 
high    order,    independent    of    the    publisher,    was 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  established  in  1802  by  Syd- 
ney Smith,  Jeffrey,  Scott,  and    Brougham.     Scott, 
seven  years  later,  persuaded  John  Murray  to  estab- 
lish  its   rival  Tory  competitor,  the  London  Quar- 
terly Review. 

20 


THE   DIDACTIC   ERA 

Returning  to  the  preceding  half-century,  we  find 
Dr.  Johnson  as  closely  associated  with  the  Literary 
Magazine  during  the  two  years  before  he  started  the 
Idler  as  he  had  been  at  the  beginning  of  his  career 
with  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.  His  learned  contri- 
butions to  this  new  periodical,  which  had  more  af- 
filiation with  the  review  than  with  the  popular 
monthly,  were  better  suited  to  his  attainments  than 
would  have  been  the  work  calculated  to  give  dis- 
tinction to  his  projected  Bibliotlieque .  After  his 
Rasselas,  written  in  1759,  he  did  no  important 
original  work.  His  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds, 
granted  the  next  year  by  the  new  king,  George  III., 
reduced  him  to  his  native  indolence,  and  thereafter 
he  was  known  mainly  by  his  conversation,  which 
was  more  brilliant  than  his  writing  and  showed  a 
better  art. 

During  Johnson's  life,  which  ended  in  1784,  there 
was  no  popular  monthly  periodical  of  the  type  es- 
tablished by  Cave  in  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine,  ex- 
cepting its  successful  imitator  and  rival,  the  Lon- 
don Magazine.  Each  of  these  was  greatly  improved 
by  the  eager  competition  between  them.  Cave  was 
driven  to  the  verge  of  illustrated  journalism,  re- 
sorting to  the  novel  attraction  of  engravings.  The 
Scots  Magazine,  the  first  published  in  Scotland,  is 
worthy  of  honorable  mention,  the  length  of  its 
career,  from  1739  to  181 7 — really  to  1826,  through 
its  continuation  as  the  Edinburgh  Magazine  —  de- 
monstrating its  stable  worth. 

21 


MAGAZINE  WRITING 

The  essay  periodical  held  its  field  through  the 
entire  century  of  which  it  was  eminently  character- 
istic. We  have  mentioned  only  a  few  periodicals 
of  this  class,  but  there  were  many  others:  the  Con- 
noisseur, to  which  the  poet  Cowper  was  a  contribu- 
tor; Fielding's  Champion  and  Covent  Garden  Journal; 
the  World — "written  by  gentlemen  for  gentlemen" 
— edited  by  Edward  Moore,  who  had  for  his  con- 
tributors such  "gentlemen  writers"  as  Chesterfield, 
Horace  Walpole,  and  Soame  Jenyns;  the  Bee  and 
the  Citizen  of  the  World,  by  Oliver  Goldsmith;  the 
Edinburgh  Mirror  and  its  successor  the  Lounger, 
both  of  which  were  distinguished  by  the  humorous 
contributions  of  Henry  Mackenzie  —  besides  scores 
of  less  important  publications. 

As  we  have  seen,  periodicals  of  this  class  were 
usually  started  and  owned  by  individuals.  This 
had  been  the  case  since  Defoe  issued  his  Review. 
Often  a  newspaper  would  be  temporarily  set  up, 
as  Wilkes's  North  Briton  was,  to  plead  some  special 
cause,  serving  the  same  purpose  as  the  old  pamphlet. 
The  publishing  enterprise,  as  distinct  from  the  trade 
of  bookselling,  was  yet  in  its  infancy,  and  the  joint 
interest  of  author  and  publisher,  now  so  commonly 
availed  of,  had  not  reached  such  a  footing  as  would 
lead  to  its  just  appreciation  by  either  party.  What 
seems  equally  strange  to  us  is  that  these  essay 
periodicals,  made  thus  dependent  upon  individual 
authorship,  should  have  sought  so  sedulously  to  con- 

22 


THE   DIDACTIC   ERA 

ceal  the  names  of  their  authors.  But  the  anonym- 
ity seems  to  have  helped  rather  than  hindered  their 
success  with  the  pubHc,  as  was  the  case  later  with 
the  Waverley  Novels.  It  is  significant  that  thus 
early  in  the  history  of  periodical  literature  the  thing" 
written  rather  than  the  name  of  the  writer  gave 
assurance  of  worth. 

The  fiction  of  the  time  was  but  the  reflection  and 
expansion  of  the  moral  essay.  Richardson  was  as 
didactic  as  Johnson,  and  even  longer- winded.  His 
epistolary  fiction  showed  a  softer  sentiment  than 
was  germane  to  the  period,  and  which  degenerated 
into  the  mock-sentiment  of  Sterne.  It  was  in  both 
something  quite  different  from  the  natural  feeling 
shown  in  Addison's  and  Steele's  essays — something, 
too,  which,  as  exhibited  in  Richardson,  was  exasper- 
ating to  Fielding,  who  deliberately  set  himself  to 
the  truthful  portrayal  of  human  nature,  but  whose 
realism  was  shallowly  pessimistic.  At  the  end  of 
the  century,  the  Irish  tales  of  Maria  Edge  worth 
presented  living  men  and  women,  and,  but  for  their 
obviously  didactic  purpose,  might  be  regarded  as 
anticipations  of  Jane  Austen's  novels  in  the  very 
next  decade — the  first  examples  in  fiction  of  a  crisp 
and  wholly  natural  realism.  Hannah  More  was 
more  of  a  religious  preceptor  than  a  novelist — but 
there  were  two  of  her:  one  the  young  woman  who 
moved  as  a  delighted  listener  in  the  circle  of  Johnson 
and  Garrick,  and  who  wrote  plays;  the  other,  the 

33 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

mature  Hannah,  who  had  come  to  believe  that  play- 
going  itself  was  morally  reprehensible,  who  wrote 
didactic  poetry  and  tracts  and  stories  that  were 
sermons,  and  who,  unlike  Miss  Edgeworth,  believed 
in  "conversion." 

This  persuasion  of  Hannah  More's,  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  a  change  of  heart,  and  that  it  is  some- 
thing worthy  of  all  effort  to  bring  about  in  human- 
kind, leads  us  back  to  what  we  were  saying  about 
that  leaven  which  in  every  age  is  working  in  English 
thought  and  feeling.  The  world  of  fashion  is  nat- 
urally ritualistic,  and  the  leaven  we  refer  to  had 
little  chance  of  effectively  working  beneath  the 
formalism  of  eighteenth-century  society,  but  it  was 
working  in  a  little  circle  at  Oxford,  before  the  mid- 
dle of  the  century,  as  it  had  been  for  a  long  time 
among  the  unpolite  multitude,  preparing  the  way 
for  preachers  like  Whitefield  and  John  Wesley, 
though  the  latter  had  a  native  dread  of  non-con- 
formity. With  this  religious  movement  we  have 
nothing  to  do  here,  save  as  it  was  a  radical  reaction 
against  the  formal  ethics  of  the  polite  world  which 
constituted  the  framework  of  its  literature,  its  his- 
tories, and  its  philosophy. 

Since  Milton  there  had  been  no  development  of 
the  highest  order  of  imaginative  prose  or  poetry. 
The  tides  of  human  feeling  were  regulated  by  com- 
mon sense,  which  eschewed  romance  and  mysticism. 
Even  fiction  did  not  venture  to  transcend  the  facts 

24 


THE   DIDACTIC   ERA 

and  circumstances  of  the  actual  contemporary  life. 
Some  critics,  like  the  Warton  brothers,  Joseph  and 
Thomas,  protested  against  the  generally  conceded 
supremacy  of  Pope  as  a  poet,  showed  leanings  tow- 
ard Spenser,  and  were  inclined  to  the  spirit  of  medi- 
aevalism,  as  Horace  Walpole  was  to  its  form.  Thom- 
son, Gray,  Collins,  Shenstone,  Young,  Beattie,  and 
Goldsmith  yielded  to  the  charm  of  Nature.  Burns, 
in  his  surprising  lyrics,  uttered  a  spontaneous  and 
half-wild  note  of  revolt  against  everything  artificial 
and  conventional.  Then,  through  the  elemental 
tempest  of  the  French  Revolution,  we  are  launched 
into  the  nineteenth  century — into  the  restless  cur- 
rents of  a  new  spirit  of  life  and  literature. 

We  have  seen  how  directly  associated  with  peri- 
odical literature  all  the  most  characteristic  writers 
— even  the  novelists — were  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. It  is  significant,  therefore,  that  fiction  was 
so  wholly  excluded  from  serial  publications.  The 
essay  periodical  was,  of  course,  too  limited  in  its 
compass  to  make  room  for  the  successive  instal- 
ments of  a  novel.  The  magazines  and  reviews, 
while  they  sought  to  furnish  entertainment  to  their 
readers,  seem  to  have  regarded  fiction  as  too  friv- 
olous to  blend  harmoniously  with  their  graver  con- 
tents. The  novels,  perhaps,  were  too  prolix — if  we 
may  judge  from  the  length  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
— even  to  serve  as  feuilletons  for  the  newspapers. 
We  know  of  but  one  instance  of  a  novel  of  this  period 

25 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

published  originally  in  serial  form — that  of  Smol- 
lett's Sir  Lancelot  Greaves,  which  appeared  in  the 
British  Magazine  in  1760.  The  novelists,  in  their 
attempt  to  make  their  stories  as  matter  of  fact  as 
possible,  seem  to  have  been  conciliating  an  obstinate 
moral  antagonism  to  fiction. 

Scarcely  any  of  the  important  poems  of  the  cen- 
tury appeared  in  periodicals,  notwithstanding  the 
prizes  offered  by  Cave.  Perhaps  the  inferior  quality 
of  the  poems  thus  published  served  as  a  deterrent 
to  the  better  class  of  writers,  who  preferred  the  dig- 
nity of  book  publication.  Gray,  who  had  worked 
several  years  upon  his  Elegy,  upon  its  comple- 
tion (the  knowledge  of  which  was  committed  to 
Horace  Walpole,  who  v/as  too  much  of  a  gossip  to 
keep  the  secret)  was  asked  by  an  editor  to  contribute 
it  to  his  magazine,  but  he  refused,  and  hurried  for- 
ward its  publication  in  a  sixpenny  booklet,  though 
afterward  he  allowed  it  to  appear  in  three  separate 
magazines. 

The  literature  due  to  the  revival  of  Romanticism 
belongs,  in  its  full  emergence,  to  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, but  it  was  foreshadowed  in  much  of  the  best 
poetry  of  the  eighteenth.  In  prose  —  especially  in 
fiction — the  line  between  the  two  centuries  is  quite 
sharply  defined.  It  is  a  long  stride  from  Walpole  to 
Scott,  from  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  to 
the  novels  of  Jane  Austen. 

«6 


CHAPTER   III 

ENGLISH      PERIODICAL     LITERATURE     IN     THE     NINE- 
TEENTH   CENTURY 

HORACE  WALPOLE,  frivolous  as  he  was, 
showed  more  insight  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries, when,  some  time  after  his  saga- 
cious prevision  of  the  French  Revolution,  he  said  that 
the  next  century  "will  probably  exhibit  a  very  new 
era,  which  the  close  of  this  has  been,  and  is,  pre- 
paring." In  every  sphere  of  human  activity  the 
opening  years  of  the  new  century  bravely  responded 
to  his  prophecy.  In  literature  the  transformation 
was  a  wonderful  surprise,  a  genuine  renascence,  so 
that  one  looking  back  could  not  discern  the  elements 
out  of  which  the  new  time  had  been  fashioned. 
Only  in  Burns  was  there  a  prelusive  suggestion  of 
the  possibility  disclosed  in  Byron. 

Scott  and  Byron  occupied  the  foreground  of  the 
opening  drama  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  century; 
and  upon  these  two  figures  the  mental  gaze  of  the 
world  was  concentrated,  with  an  interest  more  sig- 
nificant than  that  which  had  attended  the  sensa- 
tional career  of  Napoleon.     These  writers — one  the 

?7 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

great  Unknown,  the  other  only  too  well  defined 
to  the  imagination  of  readers  in  every  trait  of  his 
peculiar  individuality — had  an  overwhelming  ap- 
preciation and  adulation  from  their  contemporaries 
such  as  no  future  generation  could  give  them.  But 
there  were  others,  like  Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  Lamb, 
Hazlitt,  and  that  group  of  immortal  poets,  Words- 
worth, Shelley,  and  Keats,  not  fully  recognized  in 
their  own  time,  but,  in  our  view,  its  crowning  glory. 
The  entire  literature  of  the  preceding  hundred  and 
fifty  years  is  dwarfed  by  comparison  with  this  one 
little  period,  thronged  with  genius. 

During  the  first  half  of  the  century  literary  crit- 
icism and  political  discussion  were  the  predominant 
elements  in  periodical  literature,  to  almost  the  en- 
tire exclusion  of  fiction.  Poetry,  however,  was 
likely  to  be  found  even  in  periodicals  devoted  to 
special  objects,  like  the  Philosophical  Magazine,  in 
which  the  verses  were  at  the  end  of  the  number  and 
conveniently  detachable  by  those  who  had  no  taste 
for  that  kind  of  reading.  It  was  through  the  pages 
thus  contemptuously  torn  out  and  cast  aside  by  his 
father  that  Crabbe  was  first  inclined  toward  poetic 
composition.  Dr.  Mark  Akenside,  author  of  Pleas- 
ures of  the  Imagination,  began  his  poetic  career  by 
contributions  to  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine.  Haz- 
litt, writing  of  Wordsworth's  "Excursion"  in  the 
Examiner,  pronounced  its  finest  passages  "little  in- 
ferior to  those  of  his  classic  predecessor,  Akenside!" 

28 


ENGLISH    PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

It  was  because  of  the  special  interest  in  politics 
and  criticism  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  secured 
early,  and  long  maintained,  its  pre-eminence  over 
the  most  entertaining  of  monthly  miscellanies.  It 
began  almost  with  the  century,  and  was  for  many 
years  more  characteristic  of  the  new  era  than  any 
other  periodical.  Even  with  the  support  of  Scott, 
its  rival,  Murray's  Quarterly  Review,  under  the  edi- 
torship of  Gifford,  never  attained  the  literary  dis- 
tinction which  Sydney  Smith  and,  after  him,  JeiTrey 
gave  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

Among  the  monthlies  in  the  first  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  the  London  Magazine  *  was  sin- 
gularly fortunate  in  its  contributors.  It  was  there 
that  first  appeared  De  Quincey's  "Confessions  of  an 
English  Opium-Eater"  and  Lamb's  "Elia"  essays. 
Thomas  Hood  was  closely  associated  with  this  peri- 
odical before  he  established  one  in  his  own  name, 
in  which  he  published  his  "Song  of  the  Shirt"  and 
"The  Bridge  of  Sighs."  Among  other  writers  for 
the  London  Magazine  were  Cunningham,  Talfourd, 
Procter,  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  the  peasant -poet 
Clare. 

Colburn  had  started  his  New  Monthly  Magazine 
in  1814.  The  poet  Campbell  was  its  first  editor, 
followed  by  Theodore  Hook,  Bulwer  Lytton,  and 
Ainsworth.     Campbell  later  edited  the  Metropolitan, 

1  Quite  a  different  affair  from  the  magazine  of  the  same  name 
which  had  been  started  nearly  a  centtiry  earlier  as  a  rival  to 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

29 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

and  was  succeeded  by  Captain  Marryat,  many  of 
whose  sea  tales  appeared  in  that  magazine. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  periodical  advent- 
ures in  the  first  quarter  of  the  century  was  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  Liberal — a  literary  journal  planned 
by  Lord  Byron  in  Italy  conjointly  with  Shelley  and 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  were  then  with  him  there,  but 
to  be  published  in  London,  with  Hunt  as  editor. 
The  consultation  took  place  at  Leghorn,  a  week 
before  Shelley  was  drowned  in  the  Gulf  of  Spezia. 
The  Liberal  was  started  in  the  summer  of  1822,  but 
only  four  numbers  were  issued,  the  first  of  these 
opening  with  Byron's  famous  satire,  "The  Vision 
of  Judgment,"  two  years  before  the  poet's  death. 
Leigh  Hunt  had  ten  years  earlier  set  out  on  his  jour- 
nalistic career  in  the  Examiner,  established  by  his 
brother,  in  which  appeared  some  of  his  most  note- 
worthy sonnets.  His  most  important  writing  was 
in  the  Indicator,  in  the  Companion,  and  in  the  Talker 
— "A  Daily  Journal  of  Literature  and  the  Stage," 
lasting  during  two  years,  and  written  almost  entirely 
by  himself. 

These  journals  with  which  Leigh  Hunt  was  asso- 
ciated— especially  the  Examiner,  to  which  William 
Hazlitt  was  also  a  regular  contributor — were  the 
natural  precursors  of  the  justly  celebrated  London 
weekly  papers  devoted  mainly  to  political  comment 
and  literary  criticism,  beginning  in  1828  with  the 
AihencBum   and    Spectator.     The   Saturday   Review ^ 

3* 


ENGLISH   PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

started  in  1855,  was  the  culmination  of  this  order  of 
journalism,  and  suggests  at  once  the  names  of  such 
writers  as  Edward  A.  Freeman,  Gold  win  Smith, 
and  Lord  Salisbury.  The  first  editors  of  the  Athe- 
ncsum  were  John  Sterling  and  Frederick  Denison 
Maurice.  Dr.  Theodore  Watts  Dunton  was  for 
twenty-five  years  the  leading  literary  critic  of  this 
journal,  to  which  also  he  contributed  many  of  his 
most  characteristic  poems. 

Returning  to  monthly  periodicals,  the  establish- 
ment of  Blackwood's  Magazine,  in  181 7,  by  Will- 
iam Blackwood,  the  founder  of  the  celebrated  pub- 
lishing house  in  Edinburgh,  is  the  most  notable 
event  in  the  history  of  English  periodical  literature. 
It  marked  also  the  beginning  of  Edinburgh's  brief 
period  of  literary  supremacy.  Constable  had  be- 
come the  object  of  envy,  having  secured  the  great- 
est prize  in  the  literary  market,  the  publication  of 
the  Waverley  Novels.  He  was  the  publisher  of  the 
Scots  Magazine,  a  respectable  monthly  which  held 
the  field  in  the  absence  of  any  formidable  compet- 
itor, also  of  the  great  Whig  periodical,  the  plucky 
and  enterprising  Edinburgh  Reviciv ;  and  just  then 
the  Whigs  were  having  everything  their  own  way. 
Blackwood's  first  attempt,  in  the  Edinburgh  Monthly 
Magazine,  confided  to  the  charge  of  two  faithless 
and  incompetent  editors,  proved  a  conspicuous  fail- 
ure, as  mortifying  to  the  publisher  as  it  must  have 
seemed  ridiculous  to  his  great  rival. 

31 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

At  this  juncture  two  young  men  fresh  from  Ox- 
ford— John  Wilson  and  J.  G.  Lockhart — attracted 
the  notice  of  Mr.  Blackwood,  who  enlisted  their  in- 
terest in  his  new  enterprise.  So,  with  these  giddy 
but  zealous  and  resourceful  youths  to  drive  the 
horses  of  the  sun,  the  seventh  number  of  the  month- 
ly appeared  under  the  new  name  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  It  was  an  amazing  number  for  its  brill- 
iance, its  rollicking  fun,  and  its  folly.  It  had  in  it  oc- 
casion for  several  possible  libel  suits.  The  celebrated 
"Chaldee  Manuscript"  was  the  piece  de  resistance — 
a  satire,  couched  in  Biblical  language  (probably  at 
the  suggestion  of  James  Hogg,  the  "Ettrick  Shep- 
herd," who  was  admitted  to  the  council  of  con- 
spirators), directed  chiefly  against  the  former  edi- 
tors of  the  magazine,  against  the  "  crafty  "  Constable, 
and  even  against  Scott.  But  it  established  the  fame 
of  Blackwood.  There  were  other  things  in  the  num- 
ber less  worthy  of  its  jolly  concocters — an  article  con- 
temptuous of  Coleridge,  and  a  foolish  assault  upon 
Leigh  Hunt,  under  the  caption  of  "The  Cockney 
School  of  Poetry."  The  readers  were  promised  a 
further  consideration  of  this  "Cockney  School"  crit- 
icising the  lesser  poets,  Shelley  and  Keats!  The  ef- 
fect intended  had  been  accomplished.  The  maga- 
zine had  made  a  tremendous  sensation.  The  world 
of  Edinburgh,  and  much  of  the  world  outside,  had 
been  upset.  There  was  no  such  volcanic  eruption 
afterward,  though  the  hot  lava  continued  to  run 
afterward    in   the   brilliant    series   of   the    "Noctes 

32 


ENGLISH    PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

AmbrosiancC,"  which  was  extended  through  seventy- 
one  numbers. 

The  note  had  been  given — a  note  as  impossible 
to  London  as  it  was  native  to  Edinburgh.  Thence- 
forth it  was  understood  that  Blackwood  might  be 
anything  else,  but  it  could  not  be  dull.  Wilson, 
who  was  soon  installed  in  the  chair  of  Moral  Phi- 
losophy in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  continued 
faithful  to  two  generations  of  Blackwoods,  but  in 
each  of  these  generations  it  was  the  publisher  who 
was  editor.  Lockhart's  contributions,  if  less  buoy- 
ant, were  of  more  substantial  value  during  his  ten 
years'  service  before  he  succeeded  Gifford  as  editor 
of  the  London  Quarterly.  These  were  all  young  men, 
including  the  publisher,  who  had  just  turned  forty; 
and  the  erratic  young  Irish  genius,  Dr.  Maginn, 
heartily  joined  in  their  frolicsome  adventure.  One 
is  reminded  of  that  other  group  of  young  men 
who,  fifteen  years  earlier,  had  with  like  enthusiasm 
started  the  Edinburgh  Review,  unrestrained  by  the 
natural  prudence  of  a  responsible  publisher. 

No  other  British  monthly  publication  can  show 
an  array  of  contributors  to  match  Blackwood's  ret- 
rospect. In  its  early  years  it  had  the  best  of  De 
Ouincey,  except  his  "Opium-Eater,"  but  including 
his  most  sustained  work,  "The  Caesars,"  also  his 
"Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe."  Scott  contributed  to 
the  first  number  an  interesting  brochure  on  "The 
Depravity  of  Animals."  In  182 1  Coleridge  was  a 
contributor.     At  a  later  period  we  find  in  its  pages 

33 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Aytoun's  "Lays  of  the  Cavaliers"  and  such  hu- 
morous prose  tales  as  "The  Glenmutchkin  Rail- 
way"; Samuel  Warren's  "Diary  of  a  Late  Physi- 
cian" and  "Ten  Thousand  a  Year";  political  papers 
by  Sir  Archibald  Alison;  Michael  Scott's  "Tom 
Kringle's  Lay"  and  "The  Cruise  of  the  Midge''; 
novels  by  Bulwer;  Charles  Lever's  "Cornelius 
O'Dowd"  sketches  and  "Tony  Butler"  ;  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's "Cry  of  the  Children";  and  poems  by  Mrs. 
Hemans.  George  Eliot's  "Scenes  of  Clerical  Life" 
first  appeared  in  Blackwood.  Mrs.  Oliphant's  first 
story  in  the  magazine,  "Katie  Stewart,"  appeared 
in  1852,  and  she  received  the  proofs  of  it  on  her 
wedding-day.  Among  other  contributors  were  Wal- 
ter Savage  Landor,  Laurence  Oliphant,  and  A.  W. 
Kinglake. 

One  of  the  most  thoughtful  writers  for  Blackwood 
from  1839  to  his  death,  in  1872,  was  William  Smith, 
the  author  of  the  two  greatest  philosophical  novels 
in  the  English  language — Thorndale  and  Gravenhtirst. 
In  an  article  upon  him,  October,  1872,  in  the  maga- 
zine which  had  published  one  hundred  and  twenty 
of  his  contributions,  mostly  literary  reviews,  with 
occasional  tales  and  sketches  of  continental  travel, 
the  writer  says:  "No  better  type  could  be  found  of 
the  true  man  of  letters,  the  student,  scholar,  and 
civic.  .  .  .  That  charm  of  culture  which,  next  to 
genius,  is  almost  the  most  delightful  of  mental 
conditions,  was  his  in  an  eminent  degree."  When 
the  Athenaeum  was   started  on  its  new  career  in 

34 


ENGLISH    PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

1828,  under  the  editorship  of  John  Sterhng  and  F.  D, 
Maurice,  Wilham  Smith,  then  twenty  years  of  age, 
wrote  for  it  a  series  of  eight  papers  signed  "A  Wool- 
Gatherer."  The  first  of  these  papers  was  a  plea  for 
periodical  literature.  In  1842  he  published  his  great 
play  "  Athelwold,"  which  Macready  put  on  the  stage, 
himself  taking  the  part  of  Athelwold,  and  ^liss  Helen 
Faucit  that  of  Elfrida.  Mr.  Smith  was  the  first 
choice  of  Professor  Wilson  as  his  successor  in  the 
chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  at  Edinburgh  University. 

Between  1864  and  1890  William  Wetmore  Story, 
the  American  sculptor,  whose  poems  and  essays  as 
much  entitle  him  to  remembrance  as  his  statues, 
and  whose  writings  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  had 
won  for  him  a  select  recognition,  was  a  frequent 
and  esteemed  contributor  to  Blackwood's  Magazine. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  success  of  Har- 
per's Magazine  in  articles  of  travel,  brought  to  Black- 
wood's attention  by  Sir  Richard  Burton,  led  him  to 
write  to  William  Smith,  suggesting  that  he  edit  a 
Cyclopaedia  of  Travel,  to  be  published  in  monthly 
parts.  From  the  fifties  Harper's  was  in  correspond- 
ence with  the  same  eminent  novelists  who  were  con- 
tributing to  Blackwood — Bulwer,  George  Eliot,  Trol- 
lope,  Blackmore,  and  Mrs.  Oliphant.  Thackeray 
never  published  in  Blackwood.  He  offered  to  it  some 
of  his  earlier  work,  which  was  declined ;  but  he  was 
always  on  friendly  terms  with  the  house. 

Samuel  Lover,  the  author  of  Handy  Andy,  was 
an  early  contributor  to  the  Dublin  University  Maga- 

35 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

zine,  started  in  1833.  Several  of  Ainsworth's  nov- 
els, illustrated  by  Cruikshank,  were  first  published 
in  Bentleys  Miscellany.  During  the  last  half  of  the 
century  every  important  writer  of  fiction  has  con- 
tributed his,  or  her,  best  work  to  periodicals,  for 
serial  publication  or  in  the  form  of  short  stories. 
Some  of  the  greatest  of  these  have  been  editors  as 
well  as  contributors. 

Dickens's  editorial  connection  with  All  the  Year 
Round  and  Household  Words  is  very  well  known. 
His  first  short  fiction  sketches  had  appeared  in 
monthly  magazines — the  first  of  all,  "A  Dinner  at 
Poplar  Walk,"  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  (not  the 
New  Monthly)  in  December,  1833.  "  Horatia  Spar- 
kins"  was  published  in  the  Neiv  Monthly,  February, 
1834;  "The  Bloomsbury  Christening"  in  the  same, 
April,  1834,  and  "The  Boarding-House,"  in  the  fol- 
lowing number.  It  was  to  this  last  that  the  name 
of  "Boz"  was  first  signed.  The  earlier  sketches 
were  anonymous.  Thackeray  wrote  for  Eraser  s, 
and  was  for  some  time  the  editor  of  Cornhill.  After- 
ward, under  the  editorship  of  Sir  Leslie  Stephen, 
Henry  James,  Louis  Stevenson,  and  Thomas  Hardy 
were  contributors  to  Cornhill.  George  Meredith, 
for  a  considerable  period  associated  with  the  pub- 
lishing house  of  Chapman  &  Plall  as  its  literary  ad- 
viser, came  into  close  relations  with  young  writers 
of  fiction.  It  was  by  his  advice  that  the  first  novel 
written  by  Thomas  Hardy  was  not  published.  He 
was  editor  of  the  Fortnightly  Review — in  the  estab- 

36 


ENGLISH    PERIODICAL   LITERATURE 

lishmcnt  of  which  Anthony  Trollope  took  an  active 
part — during  John  Morlcy's  absence  in  America. 
Several  of  his  novels  were  first  published  in  that 
periodical.  His  "Adventures  of  Harry  Richmond" 
appeared  first  in  Cornhill. 

It  is  interesting  to  know — as  we  do  from  a  letter 
of  Robert  Browning  to  the  Storys,  March  19,  1862, 
first  published  in  Henry  James's  William  Wetmore 
Story — that  Browning,  who  had  contributed  several 
poems  to  Cornhill,  was  offered  the  editorship  of  that 
magazine  to  succeed  Thackeray. 

The  great  English  essayists,  from  Sydney  Smith 
to  Charles  Whibley,  have  been  contributors  to  peri- 
odicals— for  the  most  part  to  leading  reviews. 

Carlyle's  first  writings  were  published  in  the 
Edinburgh  Cyclopcudia,  then  edited  by  Brewster. 
Some  of  his  early  work  appeared  in  Eraser's.  His 
"Life  of  Schiller"  was  published  in  the  London 
Magazine.  He  wrote  for  the  Edinburgh  Review  his 
remarkable  papers  on  German  literature.  His  "  Sar- 
tor Resartus"  was  published  in  Eraser's,  and  was 
received,  we  are  told,  "with  unqualified  dissatis- 
faction." George  Eliot  was  in  1852  assistant  editor 
of  the  Westminster  Review.  James  Anthony  Froude 
was  for  fourteen  years  the  editor  of  Eraser's.  Will- 
iam Allingham,  the  poet,  was  associated  with  him 
as  assistant  editor  in  1870,  and  succeeded  him  in 
1874.  David  Masson,  the  biographer  of  Milton, 
was  the  first  editor  of  Macmillans  Magazine,  in  the 
early  numbers  of  which  Thomas  Hughes's   "Tom 

37 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Brown  at  Oxford"  appeared  serially.  In  the  same 
magazine  were  published  Tennyson's  "Lucretius," 
Charles  Kingsley's  "  Water  Babies,"  Carlyle's  "  Shoot- 
ing Niagara  and  After,"  Pater's  "Gaston  de  La- 
tour,"  Sir  George  Trevelyan's  "The  Competition 
Wallah,"  George  Eliot's  "  The  Breakfast  Party,"  and 
Kipling's  "The  Incarnation  of  Krishna  Mulvaney." 
Among  other  contributors  in  the  course  of  its  career, 
which  closed  in  1907,  were  Matthew  Arnold,  Glad- 
stone, Anthony  Trollope,  Stevenson,  Mark  Pattison,  Sir 
Walter  Besant,  Leslie  Stephen,  and  Cardinal  Manning, 

Walter  Pater  contributed  to  the  Westminster  and 
largely  to  the  Fortnightly  Review.  One  of  his  Imag- 
inary Portraits,  "Apollo  of  Picardy,"  appeared  first 
in  Harper's  Magazine. 

Matthew  Arnold's  "Literature  and  Dogma"  was 
published  in  Cornhill.  Richard  Jeffries,  first  a  jour- 
nalist on  a  local  paper,  was  afterward,  in  the  early 
seventies,  a  contributor  to  Eraser's. 

The  names  of  the  writers  we  have  mentioned, 
and  the  titles  of  the  periodicals,  are  suggestive  of 
the  spirit  which,  after  the  cold  crystallization  of  the 
two  preceding  centuries,  created  and  organized  a 
new  order  of  imaginative  literature  in  poetry,  fic- 
tion, and  criticism.  This  literature  may  not  dis- 
play the  buoyancy  and  freshness  of  imagination 
which  characterized  the  greatest  Elizabethan  litera- 
ture, with  which  alone  it  may  be  compared,  but  it 
has  developed  a  wholly  new  interpretation  of  life, 
faith,  literature,  and  art,  as  well  as  of  Nature. 

38 


CHAPTER  IV 

EMINENT   AUTHORS    IN   JOURNALISM 

THE  intimate  association  of  eminent  writers 
of  the  nineteenth  century  with  periodicals 
is,  in  a  general  way,  recognized  by  intelligent 
readers.  But  if  we  attempt  to  trace  this  connection 
by  directing  to  it  something  more  than  casual  at- 
tention, certain  features  of  it  are  disclosed  which 
are  interesting  in  themselves  as  well  as  in  their 
relation  to  memorable  writers. 

The  history  of  the  daily  newspaper,  if  anything 
so  evanescent  and  at  the  same  time  so  complex  as 
this  species  of  journalism  could  be  caught  and  held 
within  the  meshes  of  the  historian's  net,  would  pre- 
sent many  striking  disclosures.  Fielding  and  the 
greatest  writers  of  his  day  were  influential  journalists. 
The  Letters  of  "Junius"  were  published  in  the  Pub- 
lic Advertiser.  The  London  Morning  Post  at  the 
beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  especially 
favored  by  the  contributions  of  important  writers. 
Coleridge  wrote  for  it,  also  Southey  and  Arthur 
Young;  and  it  was  the  repository  of  Mackworth 
Praed's  society  verses,  Tom  Moore's  lyrics,  and  some 

39 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

of  the  best  of  Wordsworth's  sonnets.  There,  in 
1800,  appeared  Coleridge's  "Character  of  Pitt." 
Charles  James  Fox  attributed  the  rupture  of  the 
hastily  patched-up  treaty  of  Amiens  to  Coleridge's 
essays  in  that  paper. 

James  Montgomery,  the  poet,  was  the  editor  of  a 
provincial  newspaper.  De  Quincey,  before  he  be- 
came known  through  his  more  characteristic  writ- 
ings, was  for  a  year  the  editor  of  the  Westmoreland 
Gazette  in  Kendal.  George  Meredith  began  his  lit- 
erary career  as  an  editor  of  an  eastern  counties 
newspaper.  He  was  afterward  the  special  corre- 
spondent of  the  Morning  Post  during  the  Austro- 
Italian  war  of  1866.  In  the  early  forties  Dickens 
was  on  the  staff  of  the  Morning  Chronicle,  in  which 
paper,  a  generation  earlier,  Hazlitt  had  done  his 
most  important  political  work.  Southey  was  at 
one  time  offered  the  editorship  of  the  London  Times. 
The  same  position  was  offered  to  Tom  Moore  for  a 
year,  during  the  illness  of  Barnes,  who  was  at  the 
time  editor  of  that  journal.  Laurence  Oliphant  and 
Richard  Monckton  Milnes  were  its  regular  corre- 
spondents in  the  fifties.  Thackeray  was  for  some 
time  its  literary  critic.  The  famous  Irish  journalist 
and  poet,  Francis  O'Mahoney,  "Father  Prout,"  was, 
in  the  late  fifties,  the  Paris  correspondent  of  the 
London  Globe,  in  which  his  letters  made  a  literary 
sensation.  William  Allingham  reports  in  his  "Di- 
ary" that  the  Globe  is  said  to  have  ordered  a  font  of 
Greek  type  to  meet  the  emergency  devolved  upon 

40 


EMINENT   AUTHORS   IN  JOURNALISM 

it  by  Father  Prout's  copious  quotations  from  the 
classics.  Robert  Hichens,  before  he  became  known 
as  a  noveHst,  was  associated  with  the  London  World. 

In  America,  as  soon  as  there  began  to  be  a  litera- 
ture at  all  it  was  through  weekly,  monthly,  and 
quarterly  periodicals  that  it  found  its  way  to  the 
public  rather  than  through  the  daily  press,  though 
some  of  Whittier's  and  Longfellow's  earliest  poems 
were  published  in  newspapers,  and  Margaret  Fuller 
was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  New  York  Tribune. 
The  most  distinguished  American  men  of  affairs 
or  of  letters,  from  Benjamin  Franklin  to  Charles 
Dudley  Warner,  who  have  conducted  or  contributed 
to  newspapers  have  done  so  mainly  as  publicists 
rather  than  as  literary  men.  This  is  true  of  even 
the  poet  Bryant.  Yet  our  principal  dailies  have 
always  been  enriched  by  picturesque  sketches  of 
travel,  by  humorous  portrayals  of  character,  by 
more  or  less  able  criticism,  by  contemporaneous 
poetry  of  varying  degrees  of  excellence ;  and  in  recent 
years  they  have  often  published  fiction  contributed 
by  the  most  popular  writers  of  the  time.  Bayard 
Taylor  and  ]\Iark  Twain  won  their  first  laurels  in 
the  daily  newspaper.  Whittier  was  in  his  younger 
days  editor  of  the  Essex  Gazette,  in  Haverhill,  and 
William  Gilmore  Simms  of  the  Charleston  City  Ga- 
zette, in  South  Carolina. 

In  England  the  position  of  the  daily  relatively  to 
other  periodicals,  as  to  literary  quality,  has  been 
very  much  the  same  that  it  has  been  in  America. 

41 


CHAPTER  V 

AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

IN  considering  the  relation  of  American  men  of 
letters  to  periodical  literature  we  are  dealing  with 
a  theme  the  general  aspects  of  which  are  familiar 
to  our  readers.  All  that  is  of  importance  in  Amer- 
ican literature,  if  we  except  the  novels  of  Charles 
Brockden  Brown,  has  been  produced  within  the 
lifetime  of  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  who  is  still  living. 
Many  Americans  cherish  a  grudge  against  Sydney 
Smith,  who  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  in  1818  asked: 
"Who  reads  an  American  book?"  He  put  this 
challenging  question  incidentally  in  an  article  deal- 
ing with  the  statistics  of  American  progress.  The 
interrogation  conveyed  simply  the  statement  of  a 
fact,  and  had  not  the  satirical  intent  which  might  be 
imputed  to  an  earlier  expression  of  opinion  made  by 
an  American,  Joseph  Dennie,  who  said  that  "  to  study 
with  a  view  of  becoming  an  author  by  profession  in 
America  is  a  prospect  of  no  more  flattering  promise 
than  to  publish  among  the  Eskimos  an  essay  on  deli- 
cacy of  taste  or  to  found  an  academy  of  sciences  in 
Lapland." 

4? 


AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

It  may  be  presumed  that  Dennie  in  those  first 
years  of  the  century  thought  of  himself  with  some 
pride  as  the  only  man  of  letters  in  America,  but 
he  soon  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  another  in 
Charles  Brockden  Brown,  who  established  the  Liter- 
ary Magazine,  which  continued  in  existence  for  five 
years.  The  Portfolio,  w^hich  Dennie  had  previously 
established  (in  1801))  lasted  till  1827.  To  its  pages 
John  Quincy  Adams  contributed  his  impressions  of 
European  travel. 

One  American  book,  Ir\dng's  Knickerbocker's  His- 
tory of  New  York,  published  in  1809,  had  certainly 
escaped  the  notice  of  Sydney  Smith.  Irving  and 
his  literary  friend,  J.  K.  Paulding,  seem  to  have 
assisted  Moses  Thomas  in  his  Analectic  Magazine 
(1813-20),  started  in  Philadelphia  as  a  rival  of  the 
Portfolio.  Irving  edited  it  for  a  time,  and  Wilson, 
the  ornithologist,  was  a  contributor.  If  Dennie  had 
visited  Boston  in  1803,  he  would  have  found  a  small 
group  of  respectable  men  of  letters  in  the  Anthology 
Club,  founded  by  Phineas  Adams  "for  the  cultiva- 
tion of  literature  and  the  discussion  of  philosophy," 
chiefly  distinguished,  however,  because  out  of  its 
Anthology  Magazine  grew  the  North  American  Re- 
mew  in  181 5. 

It  is  unnecessary  for  our  purpose  here  to  consid- 
er any  of  the  short-lived  periodicals  of  a  previous 
period,  though  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  before 
the   middle   of   the   eighteenth   century    Benjamin 

43 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Franklin  had  been  moved  by  the  success  of  the 
Gentleman  s  Magazine  to  start  in  Philadelphia  the 
General  Magazine,  which  ran  through  six  months. 
We  are  not  writing  a  history  of  periodical  literature, 
and  shall  not  attempt  to  trace  the  origin,  growth,  or 
extinction  of  the  vast  number  of  publications  which 
have  come  into  being  since  the  establishment  of  the 
North  American  Review,  which  marks  the  beginning 
of  American  literature  and  has  the  unique  distinction 
of  numbering  among  its  contributors  nearly  every 
great  American  writer,  apart  from  its  claim  to  the 
most  distinguished  succession  of  editors,  among 
whom  were  such  eminent  men  of  letters  as  the  elder 
R.  H.  Dana,  Edward  Everett,  James  Russell  Lowell, 
and  Charles  Eliot  Norton.  It  is  significant  that  the 
first  great  imaginative  poem  written  by  an  Ameri- 
can, Bryant's  "Thanatopsis,"  first  appeared  in  the 
Review  in  1817,  followed  a  year  later  by  the  same 
writer's  characteristic  lyric  "To  a  Water -fowl." 
Dana's  equally  remarkable  poem,  "The  Buccaneer," 
was  not  published  till  1827. 

Longfellow's  articles  on  the  Romance  Languages 
were  published  in  the  North  American  Review. 
William  H.  Prescott  contributed  to  the  Review  two 
elaborate  articles  on  Italian  poetry  in  1828  and  1831. 
The  second  of  these  was  first  accepted  by  Lockhart 
for  the  London  Quarterly,  but  the  publication  was 
so  long  delayed  that  Prescott  reclaimed  the  manu- 
script. He  contributed  to  the  North  American  an 
article  on  Moliere  in  1828  and,  in  1849,  a  review  of 

44 


AMERICAN   PERIODICALS 

Ticknor's  Spanish  Literature.  Of  his  reviews  and 
fugitive  contributions  to  literary  magazines  he 
seems  to  have  had  a  contempt  hke  that  which 
Lockhart  showed  for  his  own  work  of  that  sort. 
"Ephemeral  trash,"  he  called  it,  which  "had  better 
be  forgotten  by  me  as  soon  as  possible."  But  he 
allowed  Bentley,  his  London  publisher,  in  1845,  to 
issue  this  material  in  a  volume  entitled  Critical  and 
Historical  Essays,  which  the  Harpers  at  the  same 
time  published  in  America. 

Bryant  as  early  as  18 18  contributed  to  the  North 
American  Review  an  article  on  American  poetry. 
We  get  some  idea  of  the  poverty  of  his  theme  from 
the  names  of  the  poets  commemorated  by  him  in 
his  article — the  Reverend  John  Adams,  Joseph  Green, 
Francis  Hopinkson,  Doctor  Church,  Philip  Frcneau, 
Trumbull,  D wight.  Barlow,  Humphreys,  Hopkins, 
and  William  Clifton. 

Axmerican  men  of  letters  at  that  time  devoted 
their  attention  more  to  periodicals  than  to  the 
writing  of  books.  Philadelphia  in  the  twenties 
and  thirties,  though  she  had  no  great  individual 
author  like  Bryant  or  Cooper  or  Irving,  could  just- 
ly claim  pre-eminence  as  the  great  literary  maga- 
zine centre.  Even  as  late  as  1843  Hawthorne, 
Whittier,  and  Lowell  seem  to  have  been  attracted 
to  that  centre.  Graham's  Magazine  was  then  the 
most  popular  miscellany  in  America.  Longfellow's 
"Spanish  Student"  first  appeared  in  the  pages  of 
this  periodical  in  1842. 

45 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

The  first  important  literary  periodical  published 
in  New  York  was  the  Atlantic  Magazine  (1824), 
which  soon  became  the  New  York  Monthly  Review, 
of  which  R.  S,  Sands  and  William  C.  Bryant  were 
the  chief  supporters.  Bryant  had,  in  1824,  come 
to  New  York,  prompted  by  the  advice  of  Henry 
Sedgwick  (a  brother  of  the  poet  Catharine  M. 
Sedg^vick),  a  prominent  lawyer  in  that  city.  Here 
he  met  Cooper  and  Halleck,  also  Jared  Sparks,  who 
had  just  assumed  the  editorship  of  the  North  Amer- 
ican Review.  Returning  to  Great  Barrington,  he 
contributed  poems  to  the  United  States  Literary 
Gazette.  In  1825  he  came  back  to  New  York  and, 
with  Henry  J.  Anderson,  undertook  the  editorship 
of  the  New  York  Review.  His  "  Death  of  the  Flow- 
ers" was  published  in  that  periodical — also  Hal- 
leck's  "Marco  Bozzaris."  Bryant  began  his  work 
on  the  New  York  Evening  Post  in  1827,  two  years 
later  becoming  editor-in-chief.  Before  coming  to 
New  York,  Bryant,  like  Hawthorne,  had  found 
favor  with  "Peter  Parley,"  the  pseudonym  of  S.  G. 
Goodrich,  the  Hartford  publisher,  who  issued  an 
annual,  called  the  Token,  and  in  many  ways  gave 
encouragement  to  young  New  England  authors. 

Poe's  "Raven"  was  first  published  in  the  New 
York  Mirror  in  1845.  This  publication  was,  by 
permission,  in  advance  of  the  regular  issue  of  the 
poem  in  the  American  Whig  Review,  to  which  it  was 
originally  contributed.  Poe  was  for  a  time  editor 
of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  and  then  of  the 

46 


AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

Gentleman' s  Magazine — afterward  Graham's.  Later 
he  was  associated  with  Charles  F.  Briggs  on  the 
Broadway  Journal. 

In  the  early  thirties  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  con- 
tributed to  the  New  England  Magazine  two  papers 
under  the  caption  of  "The  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table." Thus  it  happened  that  when  in  1857 
he  resumed  the  series  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  he 
did  so  with  the  connective  remark:  "I  was  just 
going  to  say." 

N.  P.  Willis,  the  most  picturesque  figure  in  ante- 
war  periodical  literature,  was  in  1829  editor  of 
"Peter  Parley's"  Token  and,  about  the  same  time, 
of  the  Mirror,  having  among  its  contributors  Haw- 
thorne, Motley,  Hildreth,  Albert  Pike,  and  Park 
Benjamin.  His  most  striking  venture  in  this  line 
was  the  establishment,  in  1839,  of  the  New  York 
Corsair:  "A  Gazette  of  Literature,  Art,  Dramatic 
Criticism,  Fashion,  and  Novelty."  Thackeray  wrote 
for  it  letters  from  London,  Paris,  Peking,  and  St. 
Petersburg,  which  afterward  made  up  his  Paris 
Sketch-Book.  In  his  later  years  Willis  was  closely 
associated  with  the  Home  Journal,  to  which  Thomas 
Bailey  Aldrich  was  a  contributor. 

In  1843  James  Russell  Lowell  started  a  magazine 
called  the  Pioneer,  which  ran  for  only  three  months, 
but  numbered  among  its  contributors  Hawthorne, 
Poe,  Whittier,  and  Elizabeth  Barrett,  afterward 
Mrs.  Browning.  At  about  the  same  time  Emerson, 
Margaret  Fuller,  and  George  Ripley  were  conducting 

47 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

the  Dial,  which,  though  not  the  organ  of  the  Tran- 
scendentalists  at  Brook  Farm,  expressed  the  views 
and  sentiments  of  that  community. 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  the  novelist  and  poet, 
was  the  first  editor  of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
which  had  been  established  in  New  York  in  1833. 
Hawthorne,  Irving,  and  nearly  every  important 
writer  of  the  country  contributed  to  this  entertain- 
ing magazine  during  the  first  twenty  years  of  its 
existence.  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life"  first  ap- 
peared in  this  magazine,  anonymously.  J.  G.  Whit- 
tier  reprinted  it  in  his  newspaper,  and  said  that  the 
nine  verses  were  "worth  more  than  all  the  dreams 
of  Shelley  and  Keats  and  Wordsworth." 

Walt  Whitman,  seventeen  years  before  he  became 
famous  as  the  author  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  was  the 
printer,  editor,  and  publisher  of  a  weekly  newspaper 
in  Huntington,  Long  Island.  He  had  before  this 
undertaking  contributed  to  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines. His  weekly  newspaper,  the  Long  Islander, 
was  abandoned  by  him  after  two  years'  experience 
in  1840.  The  next  year  he  gained  his  first  literary 
success  in  the  Democratic  Review  with  a  poem  en- 
titled "Death  in  a  School-Room."  Other  contri- 
butions to  this  periodical  were  signed  Walter  Whit- 
man. He  was  a  contributor  to  the  Mirror,  wrote 
verses  for  the  New  World,  on  which  he  was  a  com- 
positor, and  was  successively  the  editor  of  the  Au- 
rora and  the  Taller.  In  1846-47  he  was  the  editor 
of   the   Brooklyn    Eagle.      It    was    in    some    anti- 

48 


AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

slavery  poems  in  the  New  York  Tribune  that  he 
first  adopted  irregular  metrical  forms. 

It  was  in  the  last  half  of  the  century  that  the 
American  magazine  for  the  first  time  ceased  to  be  a 
miscellany  and  became  a  thoroughly  well-organized 
complement  of  a  for  the  first  time  well-organized 
American  literature.  The  national  expansion  west- 
ward, especially  after  the  acquisition  of  the  Pacific 
coast,  had  developed  a  literary  need  which  maga- 
zines like  Graham's  and  the  Knickerbocker  could  not 
meet ;  and  it  was  in  the  natural  course  of  things  that 
the  publishing  house  which,  in  its  book  publications, 
was  most  intimately  associated  with  this  continental 
growth,  in  the  line  of  already  developed  or  newly 
awakened  intellectual  tastes  and  demands,  should 
establish  a  magazine  like  Harper's.  It  was  equally 
inevitable,  because  of  the  existence  of  a  group  of 
remarkable  writers  like  Lowell,  Longfellow,  Haw- 
thorne, Holmes,  Whittier,  Emerson,  and  Thoreau, 
all  living  in  the  vicinity  of  Boston,  that  the  New 
England  movement  of  that  time  should  find  its 
expression  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  These  two  were 
the  original  types,  repeated,  with  important  varia- 
tions, in  the  other  great  magazines  which  have  since 
been  established.  With  scarcely  an  exception  every 
distinguished  writer  of  books  during  this  period  has 
been  also  a  contributor  to  magazines. 

Periodical  literature  has  done  more  for  the  Amer- 
ican people  than  for  any  other.  It  had  a  consider- 
able  development   before   there   was   an   American 

49 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

literature,  meeting  the  intellectual  needs  of  a  sturdy- 
race  which,  while  its  energies  were  engaged  in  the 
solution  of  difficult  practical  problems  rather  than 
in  the  writing  of  books,  was  yet  intelligent  and  keen- 
ly curious.  After  that  period,  which  in  eighteenth- 
century  America  as  well  as  in  England  was  charac- 
terized by  "common-sense,"  and  of  which  Benjamin 
Franklin  was  the  typical  representative,  had  been 
broken  up  by  the  war  for  independence,  the  re- 
awakened thought  found  political  rather  than  liter- 
ary expression,  yet  in  the  new  generation  there  were 
doubtless  more  readers  of  Scott  and  Byron  than  in 
the  previous  one  there  had  been  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
or,  in  the  one  before  that,  of  Addison.  While  ora- 
tors like  Fisher  Ames,  John  Randolph,  and  William 
Wirt  were  being  developed  instead  of  writers  like 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  yet,  even  in  the  con- 
servative Portfolio,  extracts  were  given  from  the 
most  recent  English  books  and  periodicals  and  from 
the  new  English  poets.  We  may  call  it  colonialism, 
a  confession  of  dependence,  but  this  eclecticism  in 
periodical  literature  furnished  a  necessary  comple- 
ment of  American  culture,  and  the  fact  that  it  was 
demanded  and  eagerly  accepted  by  readers  shows 
that  there  existed  the  sensibility  to  imaginative  lit- 
erature, though  the  literary  faculty  was  diverted  to 
every  other  than  its  own  distinctive  field. 

In  the  first  year  of  the  fifties,  when  Harper's 
Magazine  began  its  career,  there  were  no  really  great 
American  writers  of  fiction.    We  had  had  our  Cooper 

50 


AMERICAN   PERIODICALS 

and  Irving  and,  far  in  the  retrospect,  our  Charles  \ 
Brockden  Brown.  Poe  had  already  finished  his  career  * 
in  this  field.  But,  in  England,  Scott  and  Ains worth, 
Maria  Edgeworth  and  Jane  Austen,  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  Lever,  Bulwer,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
George  Eliot.  Outside  of  our  large  cities,  and  es- 
pecially in  the  new  West,  this  great  fiction  was  not 
readily  accessible  in  book  form,  and  a  vast  majority 
of  the  people  were  dependent  upon  a  magazine  which 
should  undertake  to  meet  its  need  by  the  publica- 
tion serially,  but  in  their  entirety,  of  the  best  cur- 
rent novels  of  the  day.  The  magazine  which  did 
effectively  undertake  this  publication,  through  com- 
munications already  established  with  English  au- 
thors and  publishers,  was  accomplishing  an  impor- 
tant work  for  American  literature. 

The  short -story  writers,  who  were  to  displace 
T.  S.  Arthur  and  the  sentimental  contributors  to 
Graham's  Magazine  and  other  miscellanies  of  that 
order,  were  stimulated  to  do  their  best  by  reading 
the  best,  and  the  powers  thus  evoked  produced 
work  in  this  field  of  fiction  which  was  not  only  orig- 
inal in  structure  and  quality,  but  far  surpassed  all 
English  models.  Not  less  effective  was  the  stim- 
ulation of  artists  through  the  use  of  illustrations, 
until  the  original  work  of  Abbey  and  Reinhart  and 
Pyle  was  as  far  above  that  of  "Porte  Crayon"  as  the 
short  stories  of  Miss  Wilkins  and  Owen  Wister  sur- 
passed Fitz-James  O'Brien's. 

The  intimate  blending  of  a  magazine  with  the 
s  51 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

thought  and  life  of  a  whole  people,  whose  intellect- 
ual and  emotional  sensibility  was  so  quickly  respon- 
sive to  its  imaginative  literature,  and  whose  curios- 
ity was  so  fully  met  by  its  articles  of  travel  and 
exploration  and  by  others  of  an  informing  character, 
making  it  for  them  a  Real  Encyclopedia  of  the  liv- 
ing world,  was  never  so  fully  realized  as  in  the  ca- 
reer of  the  periodical  which  was  the  first  example 
of  its  type — that  of  a  popular  illustrated  magazine. 
It  had  the  exclusive  advantage  of  this  intimacy 
for  fully  twenty  years  before  others  of  the  same 
t3^e  and  class  entered  the  field,  amicably  sharing 
its  popularity. 

Equally  illustrious,  within  its  deliberately  chosen 
limitations,  has  been  that  other  type  of  magazine 
established  by  the  Atlantic  Monthly  —  a  type  con- 
sistently maintained  for  half  a  century,  and  of  which 
it  has  been  the  single  successful  example.  It  began 
its  career  at  the  most  propitious  moment,  when  every 
individual  member  of  the  most  distinguished  galaxy 
of  writers  which  this  country  has  ever  produced — 
even  outrivalling  in  stability  of  literary  character  the 
celebrated  Edinburgh  group  in  the  first  quarter  of 
the  century — was  at  his  best.  It  was  edited  from 
the  beginning  by  such  eminent  men  of  letters  as 
Lowell,  Howells,  Scudder,  and  Aldrich;  and,  after 
the  brilliant  constellation  of  writers  who  gave 
it  its  earliest  distinction  had  vanished  and  the 
peculiar  literary  supremacy  of  Boston  with  it, 
the   course  of  empire   inevitably   tending   to  New 

52 


AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

York,  the  Atlantic  still  remained  unrivalled  in  its 
own  field. 

Each  of  the  two  types  which  we  have  been  con- 
sidering is  remarkable  for  its  flexibility,  which  has 
been  shown  not  only  in  such  changes  as  occur  in 
progressive  development,  but  in  such  as  are  of  an 
evolutionary  character.  The  Atlantic,  standing  es- 
pecially for  the  individual  expression  of  its  writers, 
was  too  catholic  in  its  selection  to  depend  entirely 
upon  a  single  group  of  authors,  and  the  passing  of 
that  most  distinguished  group  was  simultaneous 
with  the  emergence  elsewhere,  in  a  broader  field, 
of  writers  worthy  to  take  their  place.  So,  in  the 
other  type,  when,  in  the  general  progress  of  the  coun- 
try, the  people  ceased  to  depend  upon  the  illustrated 
periodical  for  either  elementary  information  or  sup- 
plementary education,  the  field  of  imaginative  lit- 
erature in  fiction  and  the  short  story  and  in  the 
higher  order  of  creative  essay  and  sketch  was  en- 
larged and  diversified  as  if  by  new  species.  Fresh 
disclosures  in  science  and  in  history  took  the  place  of 
the  elementary  lesson. 

The  last  half  of  the  century  may  be  called  the  age 
of  Criticism,  in  the  large  sense  of  that  term,  as  used 
by  Matthew  Arnold  when  he  defined  poetry  as  "the 
criticism  of  life."  Fiction,  in  its  higher  function,  is 
the  critical  interpretation  of  life;  and  it  was  when 
fiction  came  into  its  own  that  a  fresh  and  mighty 
impulse  was  given  to  periodical  literature,  as  a  means 

S3 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

of  psychical  excitement,  entertainment,  and  inspira- 
tion, repudiating  the  formally  didactic  scheme  of 
its  early  development.  The  texture,  otherwise,  of 
periodical  literature  has  been  transformed  as  to  its 
character  and  purpose,  serving,  as  truly  as  fiction, 
but  in  a  different  way,  for  the  imaginative  interpre- 
tation of  life  and  Nature. 

The  course  of  periodical  and  of  general  litera- 
ture, since  magazines  came  into  existence,  has  been 
very  much  the  same,  often  identical.  All  that  we 
most  admire  of  De  Quincey's  work  was  published 
in  periodicals.  Macaulay's  essays  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review  were  as  brilliant  as  his  History.  The  great 
writer  is  himself,  in  his  complete  individuality, 
whether  he  is  writing  books  or  contributing  to  a 
magazine  or  to  a  newspaper.  The  fact  that  Lowell's 
first  series  of  "  Biglow  Papers"  was  published  in  the 
Boston  Courier,  that  Howells's  "Venetian  Days" 
originally  appeared  in  the  Boston  Advertiser,  and 
Charles  Dudley  Warner's  "My  Summer  in  a  Garden" 
in  the  Hartford  Courant,  does  not  detract  from  the 
excellence  of  these  productions.  It  has  been  the 
rule  rather  than  the  exception  that  the  greatest 
fiction  of  the  last  sixty  years  has  been  issued  seri- 
ally before  book  publication.  Some  of  the  best 
volumes  of  verse  in  our  day  are  collections  of  maga- 
zine poems. 

What  is  more  significant  is  the  fact  that  those 
changes  which  have  marked  the  successive  stages  in 

54 


AMERICAN    PERIODICALS 

the  evolution  of  literature  for  two  centuries — that  is, 
since  the  appearance  of  the  Tatler  and  Spectator — 
have  been  first  registered  in  the  periodical.  As  we 
have  seen,  the  authors  who  have  originated  "new 
species"  have  often  been  foremost  in  the  initiation 
of  periodicals.  The  genesis  of  the  Dial  is  only  a 
typical  instance.  Other  writers,  the  necessary  or- 
gan of  new  creative  or  interpretative  genius  having 
been  established,  found  in  it  an  opportunity  for  ex- 
pression not  otherwise  open. 

The  few  eminent  writers  of  books  who,  like  Brown- 
ing, have  not  been  closely  associated  with  periodical 
literature  have  been  stimulated  by  the  conditions 
which  it  has  created.  There  is  still,  as  there  always 
will  be,  the  exalted  place  for  the  book  which,  by 
reason  of  its  theme  and  scope  rather  than  its  qual- 
ity, lies  beyond  the  range  of  any  magazine ;  but  in 
purely  imaginative  creations  such  instances  are  rare 
and  ever  becoming  rarer.  Poets  now  seldom  under- 
take the  longer  flights  of  an  older  time.  The  novel 
holds  its  own,  but  it  is  an  exceptional  case  that, 
through  some  peculiarity,  it  escapes  the  magazine 
field.  The  short  story,  in  its  infinite  diversification, 
the  brief  essay  or  sketch,  the  poem  which  conforms 
to  Poe's  rule  that  it  must  be  read  at  one  sitting,  are 
more  and  more  to  the  writer's  taste  and  the  reader's 
liking,  in  the  natural  course  of  evolution — a  course 
promoted  by  periodical  literature. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   AMERICAN   AUDIENCE 

IN  the  criticism  of  contemporary  literature  there 
has  always  been  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  aca- 
demically trained  critics  to  disparage  the  present 
as  compared  with  the  past.  This  tendency  discloses 
the  vice  as  well  as  the  virtue  of  that  conservatism 
which  has  the  long  view  backward  but  the  limited 
view  of  the  present  and  future,  and  which,  while  it 
holds  to  the  established  best,  ignores  the  best  that 
is  in  the  making. 

As  a  corrective,  we  need  for  literature  such  a  plea 
as  Professor  Lounsbury  is  in  the  habit  of  interposing 
for  language — a  protest  against  the  purist  and  an 
apology  for  legitimate  freedom  and  flexibility.  Pro- 
fessor Lounsbury' s  defence  of  new  locutions  should 
find,  for  a  proper  adjustment  of  our  critical  view,  a 
counterpart  in  some  equally  effective  justification  of 
new  literary  styles. 

Our  judgment  is  not  merely  a  matter  of  orienta- 
tion— the  turn  of  our  thought  backward  through 
well-worn  channels  to  familiar  traits  and  canons 
which  have  the  sanction  of  classical  authority.     We 

56 


THE   AMERICAN    AUDIENCE 

incur  the  peril  of  a  vast  ignorance  if,  in  our  regard 
for  the  continuity  of  human  culture,  we  confine 
ourselves  to  a  retrospective  view,  and  disregard,  or 
court  only  for  our  amusement,  the  novel  phenomena 
which  constantly  present  themselves  in  the  field  of 
literature.  So  a  follower  of  the  Hesiod  cult  might 
have  regarded  the  invasion  of  the  Homeric  influence, 
which  turned  out  to  be  the  inspiration  of  what  was 
best  in  Hellenic  art  and  literature.  So  Dr.  Johnson 
must  have  looked  upon  the  swelling  current  of 
romanticism  which  swept  away  the  artificial  decora- 
tions and  conventions  of  two  generations  of  English 
classicism. 

We  of  the  East,  accustomed  from  the  beginning 
to  look  across  the  Atlantic  for  our  models  and  in- 
spirations, have  given  too  little  heed  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  new  spirit  in  the  West,  excepting  as  it 
has  been  embodied  in  the  personality  of  a  statesman 
like  Lincoln  or  of  a  humorist  like  Mark  Twain.  That 
way  lies  for  us  the  freshly  unveiled  Pacific,  our  dream 
of  Empire,  and  the  magnificent  realization  of  ma- 
terial grandeur  and  enterprise — a  realm  of  advent- 
ure which  for  more  than  fifty  years  has  been  invest- 
ed with  the  glamour  of  Argonautic  romance.  We 
have  felt  all  this,  but  we  have  failed  to  comprehend 
the  mental  attitude  of  the  people  who  have  accom- 
plished these  material  results — an  attitude  developed 
in  the  light  and  shadow,  and  under  the  stimulus  and 
oppressiveness,  of  such  achievement. 

57 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

The  strenuous  men  of  the  West  are  absorbed  in 
schemes  of  mechanical  progress  and  commercial  ex- 
pansion, while  social  and  intellectual  culture  is  to  a 
great  extent  established  and  maintained  by  the  wom- 
en. It  appears,  too,  that,  as  the  men  admire  those 
intellectual  functions  which  they  have  no  time  for, 
so  the  women  take  peculiar  pride  in  the  splendid 
material  achievements  of  their  husbands  and  broth- 
ers, and  seek  to  rival  these  in  the  field  so  wholly  com- 
mitted to  their  charge  —  to  do  as  striking  things  in 
society  and  literature  as  the  men  are  doing  in  bridge- 
building,  in  sky-scraping  architecture,  in  gigantic 
business  combinations. 

This  was  not  the  case  thirty  years  ago  on  the 
Pacific  coast,  though  it  is  so  to-day.  There  and 
then  it  was  from  men  that  we  heard  the  note  of  an 
original  departure  both  in  literature  and  art,  and  we 
had  the  reward  of  our  listening.  How  distinct  was 
the  local  color  and  flavor  of  the  Pacific  literature  of 
that  period!  Now  the  conditions  in  California  are 
much  the  same  as  in  the  Middle  West,  save  that 
there  is  on  the  part  of  the  predominant  women 
greater  tension  of  sensibility  and  mental  activity. 

What  is  now  in  evidence  in  this  Western  field  is 
an  immense  and  eager  audience  —  eager  for  some 
things,  and  as  firm  in  its  protest  against  other  things. 
What  is  its  attitude  ?  This,  surely,  is  an  interesting 
inquiry.  The  audience  is  the  determining  factor 
in  the  making  of  a  literature;  its  demands  are  im- 
perative.    The  West  has  been  postulant  from  the 

58 


THE   AMERICAN   AUDIENCE 

beginning,  and  its  present  intellectual  requirements 
have  an  importance  in  the  shaping  of  our  literature 
equal  to  that  of  its  earlier  economical  demands  in 
shaping  the  internal  policy  of  our  government. 

What  is  the  kind  of  literature  that  the  West  wants, 
and  against  what  does  this  great  audience  forever 
utter  its  protest  ?  The  inquiry  is  the  more  pertinent 
because  our  new  writers  are  called  upon  to  choose 
between  old  and  new  methods  of  appeal.  The  ques- 
tion can  never  be  whether  the  writer  should  aban- 
don established  standards  of  literary  taste.  No  cul- 
tivated American  audience,  East,  South,  or  West, 
advocates,  much  less  demands,  a  lower  literary  art. 
Nor  is  the  new  writer's  choice  one  between  listening 
to  the  voice  of  England's  Poet  Laureate,  Alfred 
Austin,  on  the  one  hand,  calling  him  back  to  eigh- 
teenth-century ways,  and,  on  the  other,  to  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  Atherton  in  her  protest  against  what  she  calls 
a  bourgeois  literature. 

Alfred  Austin  does  not  fairly  represent  the  cause 
of  fidelity  to  the  continuity  of  culture ;  else  he  would 
not  have  with  so  easy  agility,  involving  an  implica- 
tion of  contempt,  overleaped  the  entire  and  migh- 
tily vital  Victorian  era,  to  find,  in  Pope's  time,  the 
worthiest  examples  both  of  good  writing  and  of  an 
intellectual  audience.  Nor  does  Mrs.  Atherton,  in 
any  fair  sense  voice  the  demand  made  by  intelligent 
Western  readers,  or  their  protest.  Her  plea  can 
hardly  be  said  to  adequately  and  exactly  respond 
to  the  expectations  of  that  Western  culture  which 

59 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

has  been  developing  during  the  last  two  generations 
— expectations  so  just  and  reasonable  as  to  be  worthy 
not  only  of  the  respect  but  of  the  careful  consider- 
ation of  all  lovers  of  good  literature. 

Those  of  us  who,  during  the  period  mentioned, 
have  given  close  attention  to  the  course  of  books, 
with  reference  to  their  appreciation  in  different  sec- 
tions of  the  country,  remember  that  any  literary 
work  of  exceptional  value,  whether  as  a  manifesta- 
tion of  genius  or  as  a  novel  disclosure  of  spiritual 
truth,  whatever  its  reception  elsewhere,  has  always 
been  sure  of  a  hearty  response  from  beyond  the 
Rockies,  where  was  the  nucleus  of  the  early  growth 
of  culture  in  the  West.  The  people  who  migrated 
from  New  England  carried  with  them  to  their  new 
homes  their  intellectual  tastes  and  habits,  building 
churches  and  schools  and  colleges,  and  establishing 
newspapers ;  and  while  the  South  cherished  local  in- 
dependence almost  to  the  point  of  exclusiveness, 
owing  to  its  peculiar  institution,  the  West  long 
cherished  a  feeling  of  dependence,  beseeching  means 
of  easy  communication  with  Eastern  centres,  that 
it  might  not  be  cut  off  from  the  currents  of  the  old- 
home  and  the  Old-World  culture.  The  demand  of  this 
people,  adventurous  but  unwillingly  remote,  for  good 
literature  afforded  an  eager  market  for  books;  and 
the  one  periodical  that  in  those  early  days  had  a  gen- 
eral circulation  instinctively  adapted  itself  to  meet  the 
far-off  need  for  such  educational  aliment  as  schools 
and  libraries  could  not  furnish,  while  its  fiction  sup- 

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THE   AMERICAN    AUDIENCE 

plied  the  wants  of  the  imagination,  and  its  illus- 
trated articles  of  travel  brought  the  whole  world  to 
the  mining-camp  and  the  settler's  cabin  as  well  as  to 
cultivated  homes  in  comparatively  isolated  regions. 

In  the  course  of  time  has  come  the  inevitable  re- 
action; new  currents  of  thought  and  feeling  have 
been  set  in  motion,  arising  from  a  new  kind  of  civ- 
ilization which  is  not  merely  a  reflection  of  the  old, 
and  whose  peculiar  traits  indeed  are  more  accent- 
uated now  that  it  is  in  full  communication  with 
the  world  than  in  its  earlier  isolation.  These  pecu- 
liar traits  are  the  result  really  of  a  slow  and  un- 
conscious development,  and  are  intimate  and  sub- 
jective as  distinguished  from  external  peculiarities 
of  tone,  manner,  and  speech.  They  indicate  modes 
of  thought  and  feeling — the  psychical  attitude.  If 
we  were  to  express  this  attitude  in  positive  terms, 
we  should  speak  of  it  as  vital,  tense,  and  intuitively 
direct — just  what  we  would  expect  of  a  culture 
which  has  come  to  follow  the  lead  of  feminine  in- 
spiration. Dux  femina  jacti;  and  this  leadership, 
it  must  be  admitted,  is  reinforced  by  the  inspiration 
of  all  the  great  masters  in  the  whole  line  of  human 
culture.  Very  much  of  the  energy  engaged  in  this 
development  is  exhausted  in  social  activities  and 
for  practical  ends;  it  certainly  does  not  as  yet  pro- 
duce many  eminent  authors,  and  the  immediate 
atmosphere  —  the  overpowering  material  environ- 
ment— is  not  conducive  to  great  authorship,  though 

6i 


m'agazine  writing 

by  reaction  the  psychical  sensibiHty  is  deepened, 
the  result  of  which  is  an  audience  of  distinguished 
readers  whose  attitude  toward  literature  must  have 
a  profound  influence  in  shaping  and  directing  it. 

We  find  it  easier,  therefore,  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
traits  of  this  femininely  conducted,  though  by  no 
means  effeminate,  Western  culture  in  somewhat  neg- 
ative terms.  Open  to  all  currents  of  the  world's 
past  and  present  thought  and,  as  we  have  said,  re- 
inforced by  them,  it  reacts  upon  them  as  it  does 
upon  its  own  immediate  environment.  As,  in  the 
latter  case,  the  psychical  rises  to  react  upon  the  ma- 
terial, so  against  all  the  influences  of  the  world's 
culture  is  developed  an  impatience  of  the  traditional 
and  conventional  forms  through  which  these  influ- 
ences offer  their  values.  The  values  are  appreciated, 
but  the  forms  are  repudiated — especially  such  old 
forms  as  seem  the  cerements  rather  than  the  fresh 
investiture  of  present  and  living  thought. 

This,  in  the  main,  is  the  protest,  and  it  is  a  note 
more  worth  heeding  than  that  of  the  Poet  Laureate. 
Of  course  we  are  considering  the  demands  made 
by  a  cultivated  audience,  which,  while  it  lays  lit- 
tle stress  upon  what  Mrs.  Meynell  calls  "the  trick 
of  education,"  does  especially  insist  upon  training, 
upon  a  thorough  intellectual  equipment  as  essential 
to  authorship.  In  the  West,  as  everywhere  else, 
there  is  an  outlying  audience,  clamoring  for  its  own 
kind  of  satisfaction  and  getting  it  abundantly.  The 
audience  we  have  in   view,   though  cultivated,   is 

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THE   AMERICAN   AUDIENCE 

distinctly  bourgeois  and  proudly  calls  itself  middle- 
class;  but  it  is  the  kind  of  middle-class  which  is 
produced  by  democracy  in  conditions  which  have 
freed  it  from  the  trammels  of  tradition  and  the 
masks  of  hypocrisy;  it  is  non-conformist,  not  whin- 
ingly  or  fanatically,  but  instinctively,  by  an  almost 
unconsciously  developed  attitude — an  earnest  psy- 
chical attitude  which  more  intently  regards  the 
theme  than  any  form  of  premeditated  art  in  which 
the  theme  is  expressed. 

The  feminization  of  culture  is  not  exclusively  a 
peculiarity  of  the  West,  or  even  of  America;  it  is  a 
characteristic  of  our  period,  of  the  stage  which  we 
have  reached  in  our  civilization.  Democracy,  too, 
has  done  its  work  in  the  East  as  well  as  in  the  West, 
though  it  has  not  destroyed  so  much  wheat  along 
with  the  tares.  The  fact  that  the  leadership  of 
Western  culture  is  so  exclusively  feminine  must  in 
great  measure  account  for  its  comparative  sterility. 
Where  this  leadership  is  to  a  greater  extent  shared 
by  both  sexes  and  there  is  a  considerable  class  of 
men  not  so  absorbed  in  strenuous  enterprise  but 
that  it  has  time  to  devote  to  art  and  literature, 
independently  of  social  and  practical  considerations, 
there  is  more  fruitfulness  in  the  higher  field  of  crea- 
tive work. 

Some  characteristic  Western  traits  of  an  earlier 
period  have  disappeared.  In  the  present  situation 
there  is  little  chance  for  the  development  of  humor 

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MAGAZINE   WRITING 

or  for  the  existence  of  the  mood  and  temperament 
from  which  humor  spontaneously  flows.  How  much 
might  as  well  as  mirth — all  the  masterly  traits, 
indeed,  of  the  creative  spirit — must  in  the  nature 
of  things  vanish  from  a  realm  of  culture  so  exclu- 
sively dominated  by  women!  Equally  true  it  is 
that,  by  just  as  natural  limitations,  many  of  the 
traits  which  we  most  highly  prize  as  indispensable 
in  our  modern  world — not  merely  of  daintiness  and 
grace  but  of  spiritual  strength — would  be  wanting 
under  exclusive  masculine  domination. 

But  there  is  no  sterility  like  that  of  a  feminized 
culture,  unruffled  by  the  masculine  spirit,  vexed  to 
its  depths  only  by  its  own  feverish  unrest.  There 
is  in  it  no  sense  of  the  morning,  of  the  springtime, 
no  token  of  renascence.  Mrs.  Peattie  confesses  to 
this  lack  when  she  says :  "  If  candor  and  splendor 
and  truth  are  to  come  into  American  literature,  they 
must  come  by  way  of  immigrants  from  the  nations 
of  imabashed  sentiment,  who,  singing  songs  in  this 
land,  sing  with  their  faces  turned  to  the  sun — not 
toward  a  group  of  carping  matrons  sitting  in  con- 
clave on  all  honest  and  free-spoken  words." 

It  seems  strange  that  a  Western  writer  should 
indulge  in  this  far-reaching  orientation,  looking  to 
the  effete  Old  World  for  the  rejuvenescence  of  Amer- 
ican literature. 

We  could  not  so  effectively  enter  upon  the  consid- 
eration of  the  present  conditions  of  American  mag- 
azine literature  as  after  repeating  this  cry  from  the 

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THE   AMERICAN    AUDIENCE 

wilderness,  having  first  led  up  to  it  and  given  a  signifi- 
cance to  its  location  by  what  we  had  to  say  about 
what  has  long  been  and  must  continue  to  be  the  lar- 
gest constituency  of  American  books  and  periodicals, 
about  the  importance  of  its  demands  in  shaping  the 
course  of  our  literature,  about  the  value  of  its  pro- 
test, and  about  its  peculiar  culture — its  advantages 
and  its  limitations. 

But  first  we  must  let  Mrs.  Peattie's  complaint 
conclude  itself,  since  it  furnishes  her  explanation 
of  what  is  called  "  the  deterioration  of  our  literature." 
"The  matrons,"  she  says,  "have  killed  the  New 
England  literature.  They  have  edited  the  maga- 
zines, ruled  the  book  publishers,  and  broken  the 
hearts  of  the  poets.  They  will  have  an  awful  reck- 
oning some  day  .  .  .  when  they  shall  stand  and 
tremble  before  the  Truth,  and  find  all  their  propri- 
eties an  insufficient  barrier!" 

Well,  it  would  seem  that  the  day  of  judgment  has 
already  come,  at  least  for  magazine  editors.  For 
Mrs.  Peattie  only  repeats  what  the  casual  corre- 
spondents of  newspapers  and  even  newspaper  edi- 
tors have  without  end  reiterated.  If  Mrs.  Peattie 
really  meant  to  call  magazine  editors  matrons — 
that  might  seem  original,  and  perhaps  to  some  of 
the  group  unpleasant,  though,  for  ourselves,  we 
don't  mind  it;  there  is  a  kind  of  dignity  in  the  title. 
But  the  context  forbids  this  idea  of  a  personal  in- 
sinuation.    She  really  refers  to  a  very  respectable 

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MAGAZINE   WRITING 

class  of  women  for  whom  we  shall  interpose  no  de- 
fence— they  need  none.  If  they  have  done  what 
Mrs.  Peattie  says  they  have  done,  their  work  seems 
to  have  been  pretty  effective,  and  we  should  leave 
them  to  their  dreadful  arraignment.  In  fact,  how- 
ever, they  have  done  none  of  the  things  attributed 
to  them.  They  have  always  been  a  very  harmless, 
inoffensive  kind  of  women,  too  busy  with  other 
things  to  edit  magazines  or  to  act  as  literary  advisers 
to  publishers.  At  least,  in  an  experience  of  more 
than  forty  years  in  association  with  a  publishing 
house,  we  have  never  known  of  any  meddling  on 
their  part  with  the  business,  except  in  rare  cases 
after  the  fact. 

We  have  always  understood  that  the  publishers 
who  issued  Jane  Eyre  and  Adam  Bede  did  so  without 
any  previous  consultation  with  matrons  or  any 
thought  of  them,  leaving  them  to  talk  it  over  after- 
ward with  the  same  fearless  freedom.  We  never 
knew  a  publisher  to  reject  a  novel  that  was  on  its 
literary  and  dramatic  merits  worth  publishing,  ex- 
cept when  it  was  indecent  or  was  likely  to  have  an 
actually  immoral  influence — the  kind  of  thing  which 
would  have  been  as  unpleasant  reading  to  himself 
as  to  any  reader,  even  a  matron.  Trilby  was  pub- 
lished not  only  as  a  book  but  as  a  magazine  serial. 
It  was  not  immoral,  though  it  was  unmoral — as 
unmoral  as  childhood  is.  Two  or  three  matrons 
wrote  protesting  letters,  but  most  of  the  few  com- 
plaints  made   came   from   men.     Thomas  Hardy's 

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THE   AMERICAN   AUDIENCE 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervillcs  was  published  serially  in 
Harper's  Bazar,  and  his  Judc  the  Obscure  (under 
another  title)  in  Harper's  Magazine.  If  publishers 
of  books  and  magazines  err  in  this  matter,  it  is  likely 
to  be  on  the  side  of  daring,  not  from  adventurous 
intention  but  in  unconscious  innocence.  They  are 
not  afraid  to  confront  Truth — even  with  a  capital  T. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  very  Truth,  with  all  the  candor 
and  splendor  that  attend  it  and  all  its  inherent 
majesty,  that  the  best  literature  of  to-day  in  books 
and  magazines  confronts  without  tremor.  This  is 
as  true  of  our  literature  as  of  our  science.  It  is  a 
direct  and  intimate  attitude,  and  we  frankly  credit 
the  West  with  having  helped  us  to  it.  But  it  is  the 
trait  of  our  time,  as  well  in  the  East  as  in  the  West, 
however  we  may  have  come  by  it.  It  indicates  a 
distinct  advance  in  our  culture,  which  in  literature 
brings  us  ever  more  and  more  face  to  face  with  the 
truths  of  life,  just  as  in  science  it  insists  upon  the 
true  representation  of  physical  phenomena.  The 
supreme  interest  of  the  greatest  fiction  of  our  time 
is  in  its  psychical  interpretations  and  disclosures. 
This  interest  excludes  no  really  vital  theme,  but 
only  that  false  and  shallow  and  even  meretricious 
masquerade  of  human  passions  and  sentiments 
which  vitiated  the  fiction  of  a  former  age,  and  which 
no  cultivated  reader  now  tolerates.  Even  Zola  is 
pathologically  true,  and  has  his  proper  place  in  the 
respect  of  readers  who  seek  that  kind  of  truth.     In 

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MAGAZINE   WRITING 

English  and  American  fiction  the  writers  who  have 
developed  the  psychical  method — among  whom 
Henry  James  stands  both  as  the  type  and  as  first 
in  the  exemplification  of  the  type — have  kept  within 
the  limits  of  a  normal  exposition.  The  good  and 
evil  are  inseparably  mingled  in  our  human  life — 
our  chief  wonder  being,  as  Mrs.  Deland  has  said, 
the  badness  of  people  who  are  called  good  and  the 
goodness  of  those  who  are  called  bad — ^so  that  the 
shadows  have  their  place  in  the  brightest  picture, 
and  they  are  not  to  be  evaded  by  any  shuffling. 
We  willingly  follow  where  the  path  inevitably  leads 
— to  see  life  as  it  is. 

We  do  not  say  that  everything  which  could  be 
published  with  propriety  in  a  book  could  fitly  be 
published  in  a  magazine.  The  purchaser  chooses  his 
book;  the  magazine  goes  to  an  audience  to  which  it 
is  committed  by  a  pledge,  in  part  explicit,  but  for  the 
most  part  a  matter  of  implicit  understanding.  But 
the  limitation  does  not  arise  from  an  embarrassing 
moral  constraint.  That  is  scarcely  felt;  the  editor 
is  not  consciously  aware  of  it;  his  resistance  is 
against  weak,  unworthy  stuff.  There  are  doubtless 
authors  who  revel  in  brutalities,  who  enjoy  an  in- 
fernal habitation  not  for  its  purgatorial  fires  but 
for  its  sulphurous  airs,  and  who  complain  because 
they  may  not  make  their  descents  before  a  polite 
audience;  but  these  things  do  not  come  within  the 
scope  of  the  demand  of  any  species  of  human  culture. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SCOPE    OF    A    FIRST-CLASS    AMERICAN    MAGAZINE 

EVERY  magazine  in  the  course  of  its  develop- 
ment establishes  an  expectation  as  to  the  field 
it  will  occupy  and  the  kind  of  themes  it  will 
treat.  Hence  arises  its  principal  limitation.  Fifty 
years  ago,  a  popular  magazine  intended  for  general 
circulation  must  have  been  educational  in  a  sense 
that  it  need  not  be  to-day.  For  a  long  time  it  must 
have  treated  themes  now  wholly  relegated  to  spe- 
cial periodicals.  One  thing  it  never  could  have  ex- 
cluded— that  is,  the  best  current  literature. 

It  is  fortunate  in  the  interests  of  a  general  culture 
and  of  literature  especially  that  a  great  magazine 
to-day  may  have  as  its  distinguishing  limitation  the 
exclusion  of  specialties,  retaining  only  within  its 
scope  such  scientific,  historical,  and  descriptive  ar- 
ticles as  are  novel  disclosures  in  their  several  fields. 
It  may  even  avoid  all  timely  or  occasional  topics,  so 
adequately  treated  by  the  daily  and  weekly  press, 
thus  devoting  nearly  its  entire  space  to  what  is 
known  as  the  literature  of  power.  The  cultivated 
reader  is  so  greatly  the  gainer  by  this  that  he  will 

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MAGAZINE   WRITING 

not  complain,  since  whatever  is  omitted  is  easily- 
accessible  elsewhere,  while  he  is  not  sure  of  having 
the  best  current  literature,  or  of  having  so  much  of 
it,  in  any  other  way. 

The  contributor  sometimes  complains  of  the  ex- 
clusion of  some  things  in  favor  of  others  where  the 
editor  cannot  say:  "These  lie  outside  the  scope  of 
our  magazine."  There  is  a  law  of  selection  by  com- 
parison. Out  of  a  score  of  good  things  perhaps  but 
one  is  chosen,  the  one  considered  the  best  in  the 
editor's  judgment,  and  yet  the  magazine  is  filled 
from  month  to  month  with  these  chosen  contribu- 
tions. Had  the  others  been  accepted  also,  they  would 
never  see  the  light  except  as  excluding  better  things. 
It  may  be  that  among  those  rejected  some  one  thing 
is  ideally  beautiful  —  a  prose-poem,  perhaps,  which 
would  be  a  delightful  satisfaction  to  a  few  readers,  to 
whom  either  by  itself  or  together  with  other  things 
having  the  same  rare  quality  it  should  come  in  the 
shape  of  a  book,  to  be  read  at  leisure,  and  not,  as  in 
a  magazine,  mingled  with  elements  out  of  harmony 
with  it,  not  pitched  to  the  same  far-off  note.  This 
may  be  the  case  of  a  poem,  an  essay,  or  a  story. 
This  is  simply  saying  that  for  magazine  use  the  near, 
and  still  more  the  intimate,  note  is  preferred.  Of 
two  poems  having  equal  poetic  merit — one  concern- 
ing some  object  in  nature,  a  bird  or  a  flower,  and  the 
other  a  direct  appeal  of  a  human  theme  to  human 
sensibility — the  latter  would  be  chosen.    Yet  a  crea- 

7P 


SCOPE    OF   THE   MAGAZINE 

tion  of  the  highest  order,  Hke  Shelley's  "Ode  to  the 
Skylark,"  would  be  choice -compelling.  It  is  true 
even  of  books  that  the  large  polite  audience — that 
upon  whose  patronage  our  best  magazines  depend — 
demands  the  intimate  human  appeal. 

In  our  first-class  magazines  nature  sketches  find 
a  place,  in  due  proportion,  and  in  greater  variety 
than  ever  before.  The  charge  against  these  maga- 
zines, that  they  have  given  up  their  space  mainly  to 
fiction  and  fail  to  meet  the  wants  of  readers  in  other 
directions,  is  made  without  due  examination.  New 
disclosures  of  physical  phenomena;  luminous  inter- 
pretations of  history;  revisions  of  old  and  mistaken 
views  based  upon  freshly  discovered  material;  the 
most  recent  revelations  of  archaeological  exploration ; 
the  result  of  current  sociological  experimentation; 
studies  of  tendencies  characteristic  of  the  civiliza- 
tion of  to-day  and  of  imperfectly  understood  con- 
ditions of  civilization  in  earlier  times;  studies  also 
which  are  the  result  of  travel  and  observation  among 
peoples  never  before  heard  from  and  of  the  reaction 
of  a  creative  imagination  upon  material  which  seem- 
ed familiar,  but  which  for  the  first  time  yields  to 
a  new  interpretation  its  inmost  secrets,  affording  a 
fresh  field  of  wonder ;  narrations  of  singular  advent- 
ure— all  this  from  writers  the  most  authoritative, 
where  first-hand  authority  is  essential,  and,  as  to 
those  themes  whose  treatment  depends  for  its  in- 
terest upon  genius,  by  writers  acknowledged  to  be 

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MAGAZINE   WRITING 

of  the  first  rank,  wholly  apart  from  their  contribu- 
tions to  magazines.  In  this  summation  of  features 
we  are  not  considering  a  magazine's  contents  tak- 
ing a  whole  year  into  the  view;  a  single  number 
will  contain  something  of  nearly  all  this  varied  enter- 
tainment. The  articles  will  not  be  elaborate,  as  in 
a  review,  but  concisely  comprehensive,  suggestive, 
and  illuminative;  they  are  just  what  cultivated 
readers  want. 

There  would  not  be  so  much  fiction  given  in  a 
magazine  were  it  not  true  that  in  novels  and  short 
stories  the  life  of  this  and  other  times  has  its  most 
faithful  portraiture,  so  that  they  stand  for  many 
an  essay  and  article. 

If  we  are  all  along  confessing  to  certain  limita- 
tions of  the  magazine,  it  is  not  unwillingly.  We 
confess  frankly  that  in  literature  the  book  and  not 
the  magazine  is  the  supreme  thing.  In  some  ways 
the  magazine  conveys  books  to  its  readers,  in  serial 
fiction  and  in  series  of  short  stories  and  sketches  and 
important  articles — books  which  are  among  the  best 
of  their  time.  But,  outside  of  fiction,  the  great 
books  of  all  time  stand  by  themselves  in  a  world 
where  the  magazine  is  not.  The  exaltation  of  this 
world  is  in  the  matter  of  themes.  So  far  as  quality 
is  concerned,  the  isolation  does  not  exist.  Though 
we  have  admitted  that  some  things  ideally  beautiful, 
but  appealing  to  a  few  select  readers,  are  excluded 
from  magazines,   the  exclusion  is  because  of  the 

72 


SCOPE   OF   THE    MAGAZINE 

remoteness  of  their  themes,  not  because  of  their 
excellence.  The  magazines  whose  constituency  is 
Hmited  to  a  cultivated  audience,  one  which  is  con- 
stantly increasing  with  the  steady  advance  of  cult- 
ure, cannot  meet  the  demands  of  that  audience 
by  the  adoption  of  any  standard  lower  than  the  best. 
It  cannot  seek  writers  whose  sole  aim  is  popularity 
or  those  who  have  achieved  only  that.  It  must 
have  the  best  current  literature  obtainable,  and  there- 
fore the  most  eminent  writers  of  the  time,  and  it 
gets  these  writers.  The  best  current  novels  are 
published  serially  in  magazines  of  this  class.  Who 
are  the  greatest  writers  of  short  stories  and  poems? 
It  is  these  whose  work  is  appearing  in  our  magazines 
from  month  to  month.  Their  first  encouragement 
came  from  magazines.  Liberal  remuneration  for 
their  contributions  has  made  it  possible  for  many  of 
them  to  persevere  in  literary  work,  and  the  work 
itself  is  better  than  that  of  any  former  period  in  the 
history  of  periodical  literature.  But,  excellent  as 
it  is,  the  demand  of  the  audience  and  therefore  of 
the  magazines  is  always  for  something  better. 

This  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  those  who  hold  mag- 
azine editors  responsible  for  "the  deterioration  of 
literature."  The  complaints  made  are  contradic- 
tory, one  to  another.  Some  critics,  w^ho  have  given 
very  little  attention  to  the  real  character  of  maga- 
zine literature,  assert  that  contributors  in  order  to 
succeed  must  "write  down"  to  it.    The  main  com- 

73 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

plaint,  in  which  many  writers  join,  is  that  they  are 
required  to  "write  up"  to  it.  This  complaint  has 
reference  even  more  to  themes  that  are  excluded 
than  to  requirements  as  to  style,  though  the  one 
point  usually  implies  the  other.  It  is  objected  that 
the  magazine  editor  "wants  better  bread  than  can 
be  made  of  wheat,"  that  he  sets  himself  up  as  a 
"ruler  of  literature,"  trampling  upon  every  spark 
of  genius  and  repudiating  all  that  is  primal  and 
elemental,  and  that  he  is  especially  shocked  by  the 
expression  of  "unabashed  sentiment." 

Everything  in  its  place  and  time  commands  re- 
spect. Crudeness  precedes  development  in  all  evolu- 
tion. But  it  would  be  unjust  to  treat  the  complaint 
as  a  plea  for  crudeness.  Much  as  it  sometimes  seems 
like  it,  it  is  not  meant  to  be  that.  If  we  allow  the 
complainant  to  state  his  own  case,  he  would  say  that 
instead  of  favoring  retrogression — a  reversion  to  a 
lower  order  of  development — he  stands  as  the  ad- 
vocate of  those  reactions  which  especially  charac- 
terize the  most  advanced  stages  of  human  civiliza- 
tion. The  plant  or  the  animal  developed  into  new 
varieties  by  artificial  selection,  if  again  left  to  itself, 
reverts  to  its  original  type,  and  this  might  properly 
be  called  degeneration.  But  in  human  develop- 
ment the  progress  involves  a  series  of  reactions, 
peculiar  to  a  rational  consciousness,  which  is  itself 
due  to  the  breaking  of  vital  currents,  and  which 
gains  in  stability  with  the  increased  complexity  of 
the  brokenness.     All  nature  has  this  divided  living, 

74 


SCOPE   OF   THE   MAGAZINE 

and  the  division  is  multiplication ;  but  in  man  it  has 
a  peculiar  significance  because  it  is  a  psychical  proc- 
ess, involving  reflection  which  gives  him  the  choos- 
ing will,  so  that  in  his  progress  he  does  not  always  go 
straight  on  in  inevitable  courses,  but  turns  upon  him- 
self at  will  and,  in  spiral  fashion,  goes  forward  half 
of  the  time  by  going  backward.  Thus  the  call  for 
the  primal  and  elemental  is  forever  recurrent,  in 
each  downward  course  of  the  spiral  ascent. 

This  is  all  true  and  strictly  philosophical.  Man 
goes  back  upon  himself  in  a  way  that  Nature  does 
not — except  at  vast  intervals  when  she  also  declares : 
"I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go."  This  proclama- 
tion man  —  the  most  tropic  of  all  beings  —  makes 
often  in  quick  reactions  and  revolutions.  His  spirit 
builds  for  itself  a  complex  edifice  full  of  life  and 
light  in  which  for  a  time  it  rejoices ;  then  it  cherishes 
the  edifice  for  itself,  and  as  the  surfaces  harden  it 
delights  in  giving  them  the  polish  they  are  ready 
to  take;  it  refines  all  outward  means  of  expression, 
revelling  in  forms  of  exquisite  grace  and  measure, 
and  multiplying  the  conceits  and  caprices  of  its  ar- 
chitecture. Then  the  windows  grow  dull;  there  is 
death  at  the  extremities  where  life  has  exhausted 
itself  in  accomplishments  that  now  turn  to  vanities ; 
the  spirit,  burdened  by  what  seemed  its  weight  of 
glory,  is  lulled  to  sleep  by  its  muffled  music.  This 
is  the  course  of  every  age,  and  at  every  fresh  awaken- 
ing of  the  human  spirit  the  mortal  coil  of  the  formal 
structure  is  shuffled  off,  and  in  the  rude  light  of  the 

7S 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

new  morning,  as  in  "the  freshness  of  the  early 
world,"  men  are  with  the  gods  again,  who  are  so  poor 
that  their  gifts  are  only  of  raw  material.  What 
wonder  that,  when  refinements  become  glosses  and 
all  our  vesture  a  masquerade,  we  long  for  that  pri- 
mal poverty! 

But  the  plea  for  the  elemental  in  literature  does 
not  seem  quite  justified,  since  we  already  have  had 
so  much  of  it,  the  literary  pendulum  having  so  long 
swung  that  way.  More  than  a  century  ago  the 
reaction  began  against  the  perruque  and  pirouette 
in  literary  pantomime  and  all  the  artificialities  of 
Queen  Anne's  time;  it  has  been  going  on  ever  since, 
and  it  has  gone  so  far  that,  by  an  opposite  reaction, 
many  look  with  a  kind  of  envy  to  the  formal  graces 
of  that  remote  period  which  have  for  them  the  fas- 
cination of  the  eighteenth-century  minuet. 

We  in  America  have  had  our  Walt  Whitman,  and 
if  there  is  any  variety  of  "unabashed  sentiment" 
with  which  the  fiction  of  the  last  twenty  years  has 
not  made  us  acquainted,  we  are  willing  to  forego 
further  knowledge  of  it. 

In  good  and  bad  literature — in  that  which  ap- 
peals to  the  cultivated  and  that  which  panders  to  a 
lower  taste — this  reaction  has  done  its  best  and 
worst  for  us.  We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  has 
run  its  course,  and  that  it  has  no  new  glories  to  dis- 
close. Our  attitude  toward  the  mightiest  realities 
of  life,  the  most  elemental  truths,  is  more  direct  and 

76 


SCOPE   OF  THE   MAGAZINE 

intimate  than  ever  before;  and  it  is  so  in  magazines 
as  well  as  in  books.  The  magazine  editor  has  cher- 
ished rather  than  resisted  it,  and  he  expects  of  it,  if 
nothing  better  than  it  has  already  yielded,  yet  a  new 
revelation  of  its  possibilities.  It  is  true  that  he  fa- 
vors the  most  artistic — that  is,  the  most  developed — 
expression  of  intimate  truths ;  for  the  characteristic 
trait  of  a  period  is  sure  not  only  to  determine  the 
writer's  theme  but  to  shape  his  style.  Elemental 
truths  may  be  conveyed  more  effectively  in  the  ex- 
quisite art  of  Meredith,  James,  Hardy,  Howells, 
Hewlett,  and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  than  in  the  un- 
couth forms  which,  because  of  their  crudeness,  may 
seem  to  some  especially  suited  to  their  expression. 

Nevertheless,  the  editors  of  our  best  magazines 
do  not  reject  the  contributions  of  the  less  developed 
writer  who  promises  great  things  to  come — great  in 
rare  art  as  well  as  in  rare  insight.  Those  writers 
now  proclaimed  the  greatest  were  in  their  lesser  day 
diligently  fostered  by  these  magazines. 

The  most  unjust  and,  even  on  the  part  of  those 
who  ought  to  know  better,  the  most  prevalent  com- 
plaint is  that  magazine  editors  suppress  individual- 
ity, either  by  its  entire  exclusion  or  by  its  corruption 
through  the  imposed  obligation  to  accommodate  it- 
self to  editorial  requirements.  On  the  contrary,  it 
is  individuality  that  the  wise  editor  most  eagerly 
looks  for  and  most  sedulously  cultivates.  Apart  from 
the  wholly  worthless  stuff  offered,  more  contribu- 

77 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

tions  are  rejected  because  their  writers  have  made  a 
point  of  accommodation  than  for  any  other  reason. 
It  is  only  as  a  writer  expresses  himself,  utters  his 
own  note,  that  he  has  any  value.  The  most  ob- 
viously "magazinish"  thing  is  the  most  unmaga- 
zinable.  Any  attempt  toward  accommodation  in- 
jures the  contributor's  chance  of  success. 

There  are  limitations  which  the  contributor  does 
well  to  regard,  but  they  are  negative.  Magazines 
intended  for  general  circulation  must,  of  course,  ex- 
clude politics  and  theology.  A  magazine  of  this 
class  must  avoid  the  article  too  general  in  its  treat- 
ment or  too  elaborate,  also  the  article  too  special  or 
too  technical,  assuming  an  audience  devoted  to  a 
particular  field;  that  is,  it  must  not  be  distinctively 
an  art,  an  historical,  or  even  a  literary  magazine. 
Magazines  differ,  one  from  another,  in  their  limita- 
tions. Some  favor  and  some  exclude  the  timely 
topic.  But  all  must  have  variety,  and  this  necessity 
imposes  a  limitation  as  to  the  length  of  individual 
contributions,  though  each  of  thesg,  whether  an 
article  or  a  story,  must  have  a  scope  adequate  to  the 
satisfaction  of  thoughtful  readers,  even  at  the  sacri- 
fice of  variety. 

As  to  quality,  however,  there  is  no  limitation  which 
excludes  the  highest  excellence.  As  we  have  said, 
the  book  is  the  supreme  thing ;  but  not  only  does  the 
magazine  avail  of  this  supreme  value  in  its  serial 
fiction,  but  in  all  its  varied  contents  it  demands,  as 

78 


SCOPE   OF   THE   MAGAZINE 

to  quality,  the  excellence  which  gives  the  best  book 
its  supremacy,  and  which  so  many  books  lack.  A 
single  number  of  a  first-class  magazine,  though  it 
fully  serves  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  created, 
and  in  its  scope  and  quality  gives  satisfaction,  may 
seem  to  the  critic,  though  not  a  miscellany,  still,  at 
the  best,  a  fragmentary  collection;  but  taking  the 
numbers  seriatim,  as  the  reader  takes  them,  for  a 
year,  for  a  generation,  they  furnish  a  unique  illus- 
tration of  the  progress  of  literature  and,  if  illustrated, 
of  art — a  progress  which  the  magazine  has  stimulated 
as  well  as  exemplified. 

The  catholicity  of  magazines  and  their  hospitality 
to  young  writers  have  done  more  than  all  other  in- 
fluences to  build  up  our  literature. 

The  audience  is  the  determining  factor  in  our 
literature.  Whatever  that  is  most  creditable  may 
be  said  of  our  best  magazines  reflects  credit  upon 
the  culture  of  that  audience,  whose  demands  are  not 
less  exacting  than  its  response  is  quick  and  generous. 
The  whole  country  makes  up  this  audience  of  to- 
day, and,  whatever  the  diverse  demands  of  different 
sections,  these  are  equally  worthy  of  respect  and 
represent  values  which  will  be  more  evident  for  what 
they  really  are  when  distinct  currents  shall  have  ful- 
ly reacted  upon  one  another  and  blended  into  that 
harmony  which  shall  characterize  the  American  au- 
dience of  the  future. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

IT  is  now  SO  generally  the  custom  of  magazines  to 
give  the  names  of  contributors  that  readers  nat- 
urally find  it  difficult  to  understand  why  a  con- 
trary custom  so  long  prevailed.  If  we  were  to  show 
these  readers  the  manifest  virtues  of  anonymous 
authorship  in  periodical  literature,  they  would  then 
as  naturally  inquire  why  it  has  not  been  maintained. 
The  time  when  Harper's  Magazine  began  to  give 
signed  articles  is  within  the  memory  of  middle-aged 
readers,  who  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  step 
was  taken  hesitantly  and  with  much  doubt  as  to 
the  wisdom  of  yielding  to  what  had  become  a  press- 
ing popular  demand. 

The  individuality  of  the  author  was  not  a  mat- 
ter of  serious  concern  to  old-time  audiences.  They 
cared  only  for  the  theme,  not  regarding  critically, 
or  even  with  any  definite  consciousness,  its  art  or 
its  source.  Shakespeare  was  of  so  little  account 
personally  to  his  contemporaries  and  immediate 
successors  that  only  the  most  scanty  material  for 
his  biography   survived   him.     The   names  of  the 

80 


THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

greatest  authors  before  the  eighteenth  century  were 
famiHar  to  a  Hmited  class  of  readers.  Popularity 
was  impossible.  It  was  by  soldiers  and  men  of 
affairs  that  the  prize  of  wide  fame  was  won. 

In  eighteenth-century  England,  periodical  litera- 
ture was  no  longer  confined  to  the  narrow  circle  of 
erudite  readers,  but  had  become  lively  and  enter- 
taining to  meet  the  keen  demands  of  a  polite  audi- 
ence equal  in  numbers  to  that  which  frequented  the 
playhouses,  and  surpassing  it  in  intelligence.  The 
desire  of  genius  for  recognition  in  any  honorable 
field  is  natural.  Why,  then,  did  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  seem  to  shun  direct  personal  recogni- 
tion ?  Why  did  Addison  and  Steele  hide  themselves 
behind  the  mask  of  "  Mr.  Bickerstaff  "  ?  Pope  stood 
forth  with  bold  effrontery,  and,  considering  the  free- 
dom and  sharpness  of  his  relentless  satire,  he  did 
not  lack  courage.  His  medium  was  verse,  and  he 
may  have  been  more  confident  of  success  because 
nearly  all  his  predecessors  in  English  literature  who 
had  won  enduring  fame  were  poets. 

But  while  the  art  of  prose — of  modern  prose,  at 
least — was  then  in  its  infancy,  it  was  welcomed  by 
an  eagerly  curious  audience  ready  to  appreciate  its 
graces.  A  bright  prospect  was  opened  to  such  writ- 
ers as  were  able  to  furnish  urbane  entertainment, 
this  social  service  promoting  also  purely  literary 
achievement,  with  a  larger  scope  for  individual  au- 
thorship and  individual  aspirations.  Why  should 
this  authorship  seek  a  mask?     It  is  not  enough  to 

8i 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

say  that  masquerade  was  the  habit  of  the  age.  The 
fact  remains  that  individual  authorship  was  but  par- 
tially emancipated.  Few  writers  could  stand  out  in 
the  open  as  Pope  did,  expressing  themselves  without 
fear  or  favor,  having  nothing  to  gain  and  nothing 
to  lose.  Satire  was  as  much  the  weapon  in  letters 
as  it  was  in  politics.     The  mask  served  as  armor. 

The  persistent  hostility  of  the  British  government 
to  the  free  expression  of  opinion  in  the  press,  as 
shown  in  oppressive  taxation — such  as  brought  the 
Spectator  to  an  untimely  end — and  arbitrary  in- 
quisition, naturally  drove  the  writer  under  cover 
and  engendered  timidity. 

The  profession  of  letters  had  not  yet  so  far  ad- 
vanced in  honor  that  simply  excellence  in  its  ex- 
ercise would  win  either  great  regard  or  substantial 
profit.  The  "town"  would  yield  its  favor  to  such 
writers  only  as  were  effectively  piquant  or  amus- 
ing. The  attempt  to  win  this  favor  was  an  experi- 
ment. The  writer  attaching  his  name  to  an  essay 
would  have  seemed  to  count  upon  his  success  and 
to  lack  a  becoming  modesty.  After  he  had  won,  the 
mask  was  likely  to  become  transparent.  "Junius" 
alone  escaped  this  disclosure  while  he  lived,  and  it 
is  still  a  question  who  wrote  the  famous  "Letters." 

But  even  after  the  rewards  of  authorship  in  es- 
teem and  fortune  were  better  assured,  the  mask 
still  served  the  modest  intent  of  the  literary  aspirant. 
In  two  instances — those  of  Chatterton  and  the  au- 
thor of  "Ossian" — it  was  meant  to  be  impenetrable. 

82 


THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

Generally,  however,  it  was  adopted  as  an  expedient, 
shielding  the  experiment.  Scott,  when  he  began  his 
career  in  the  "Waverley"  disguise,  seemed  to  prefer 
his  lairdship  untainted  by  literature  —  at  least  by 
"scribbling"  in  prose — and  only  his  remarkable  suc- 
cess justified  him  to  himself.  His  novels,  with  his 
own  name  on  the  title-page,  would  have  had  no  ele- 
ment in  them  which  could  give  the  readers  of  them 
any  special  interest  in  his  personality.  As  the  great 
Unknown,  this  personality  became  intensely  interest- 
ing and  a  challenge  to  curiosity.  The  mystery  was 
unessential  to  a  just  recognition  of  the  value  of  the 
novels,  but  it  enhanced  their  immediate  distinction 
and  success.  This  element  of  mystery  has  since  been 
availed  of  by  "Boz,"  George  Eliot,  and  many  other 
pseudonyms,  and  sometimes  through  blank  anonym- 
ity; and,  for  whatever  reason  the  disguise  has  been 
adopted,  it  has  always  awakened  additional  interest, 
and  so  made  it  liable  to  suspicion  as  an  artifice  dis- 
placing natural  modesty.  Bulwer,  in  his  discussion 
with  Blackwood  concerning  the  publication  of  his 
Caxton  series  of  novels,  after  he  had  already  become 
distinguished  by  his  earlier  fiction,  seems  to  have  de- 
liberately chosen  relapse  to  anonymity  as  of  greater 
advantage  than  the  name  he  had  won. 

We  are  inclined  to  believe  that  writers  generally 
have  attached  very  little  importance  to  the  exalta- 
tion of  their  names  for  their  names'  sake.     It  is  not 
the  seeing  his  name  in  print  which  causes  the  heart 
'  83 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

of  the  novice  to  rejoice,  but  seeing  his  work  in  print. 
Certainly  he  could  not  have  seen  his  name  in  peri- 
odical literature  until  within  a  comparatively  recent 
period.  Now  that  he  does  see  it,  he  is  apt  to  look 
upon  it  rather  deprecatingly  as  an  unnecessary  dis- 
traction from  the  work  itself — a  limitation  upon  it,  a 
kind  of  impertinence.  He  feels  that  he  must  work 
hard  and  long  simply  to  deprive  that  inert  label  of 
its  insignificance.  He  sees  other  names  which  have 
lost  this  inertia,  or  whose  inertia  has  become  mo- 
mentum in  the  race  for  glory,  because  they  have 
been  so  long  associated  with  work  of  the  best  sort* 
each  with  some  peculiar  excellence  and  quality — 
names  which  have  finally  come  to  live  as  distinct 
personalities. 

If  no  names  were  given,  the  readers  of  the  peri- 
odical, being  without  the  guidance  of  labels,  might 
not  wait  till  they  had  supped  with  all  their  familiars 
before  giving  the  new  writer  so  much  as  a  nod  or  a 
glance.  They  might  even  chance  to  favor  him  with 
their  earliest  attentions  and  partake  of  his  little 
feast  with  unsated  appetites. 

So  it  was  in  the  good  old  times.  Then  Charles 
Lamb  felt  as  much  at  home  in  the  pages  of  a  mag- 
azine as  at  his  own  sheltered  fireside.  He  would 
have  shivered  at  the  sight  of  his  name  in  print  as 
if  he  stood  thinly  clad  in  the  wintry  wind.  "Elia" 
was  a  cheery,  warm  cloak  to  wrap  about  him  when 
he  wished  to  appear  en  costume.  This  extreme  shy- 
ness would  look  like  affectation  in  our  day. 

84 


THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

There  were  considerations  not  due  to  modesty 
which  made  writers  even  in  the  early  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  averse  to  a  direct  acknowledg- 
ment of  their  contributions  to  periodical  literature. 
The  periodical,  however  successful  it  might  have 
become,  received  rather  than  conferred  dignity  in 
its  relation  to  its  important  contributors.  The  old 
stigma  upon  the  literary  profession  itself  still  re- 
mained in  such  force  that  there  was  not  one  of  the 
brilliant  young  men  who  started  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view but  would  have  preferred  to  owe  his  reputa- 
tion mainly  to  some  other  profession.  Lockhart, 
after  Blackwood,  for  which  he  had  done  so  much,  had 
achieved  remarkable  distinction  as  well  as  success, 
expressed  his  growing  aversion  to  periodical  litera- 
ture, though  he  adhered  to  it,  and  was  at  the  time 
about  to  accept  the  editorship  of  Murray's  Quarterly 
Review.  He  had  been  familiar  with  this  field  as  the 
arena  of  fierce  political  conflict  and  spiteful  literary 
criticism,  and  was  just  then  depressed  by  his  own 
connection  with  the  duel  in  which  John  Scott,  the 
editor  of  the  London  Magazine,  had  been  killed. 
It  was  not  until  the  forties  that  literature  and  the 
literary  periodical  attained  to  anything  like  the  full 
measure  of  their  honorable  recognition.  Anonym- 
ity in  the  early  years  of  Blackwood  was  often  the 
refuge  of  libellers,  whose  assaults  were  only  re- 
strained by  the  liability  of  the  publisher. 

In  those  days,  too,  the  publication  of  contributors' 
names  would  have  disclosed  the  poverty  of  literature 

85 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

— at  least  of  literature  both  good  enough  and  avail- 
able. It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  Brougham 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review  or  Wilson  in  Blackwood  to 
contribute  half  a  dozen  articles  to  a  single  number. 
Brougham  is  reported  to  have  written  the  entire 
contents  of  one  number  of  the  Review,  including  an 
article  on  Chinese  music. 

The  habit  of  anonymity,  once  established,  per- 
sisted, and  it  may  have  outlasted  its  virtues  as  well 
as  its  necessities  and  its  vices.  But  we  are  not  quite 
sure  that,  in  the  interests  of  literature,  it  was  wisely 
abandoned.  The  urgent  demand  of  magazine  read- 
ers for  the  publication  of  names  is  easily  accounted 
for  in  an  age  which  revels  in  personalities  almost,  if 
not  quite,  to  the  point  of  debauchery.  Names  are 
bandied  about  as  mere  tokens,  with  no  reference 
to  the  essential  values  which  have  made  them  sig- 
nificant or  interesting.  The  banality  of  this  habit 
is  conspicuous.  The  association  of  a  writer's  name 
with  his  work  is  natural  and  proper.  But  the  care- 
ful and  thoughtful  reader  will,  without  the  author's 
name,  build  up  his  true  personality  from  the  in- 
dividual traits  disclosed  in  his  work  or  in  his  manner 
of  work,  and  the  really  great  writer  thus  discerned 
becomes  an  important  part  of  this  reader's  culture, 
and  along  with  this  is  developed  a  familiar  and 
friendly  association,  a  haunting  companionship.  A 
few  such  authors  make  for  him  an  interesting  world. 
How  different  is  his  case  from  that  of  the  reader  who 

36 


THE   PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

requires  the  names  of  contributors  that  he  may 
waste  no  time  in  finding  out  the  distinctive  traits 
to  know  an  author  by!  He  belongs  to  that  poHte 
world  which  has  the  common  habit  of  conversation 
about  books  and  pictures,  with  varying  degrees  of 
intelligence  and  interest;  and  he  is  expected  to  con- 
tribute his  share  to  this  kind  of  entertainment.  He 
lives  in  a  world  of  talk,  of  spoken  and  printed  gossip, 
and  thus  acquires  miich  knowledge  about  writers 
who  are  in  vogue  without  any  serious  study  of  their 
work,  for  which  he  has  as  little  time  as  inclination. 
He  pays  his  passing  tribute  as  a  reader,  and  is  sure 
to  confine  his  attention  to  literary  notabilities. 

That  loose  liberality  which  excludes  rational 
standards,  which  counts  notoriety  as  a  legitimate 
distinction,  tends  to  degeneration.  The  temptation 
is  offered  to  the  new  writer  to  win  an  easy  suc- 
cess by  getting  himself  talked  about  through  some 
eccentric  performance  lying  outside  the  range  of 
literature.  Henceforth  his  name  stands  for  vast 
possibilities  in  his  particular  field  of  sensationalism, 
and  has  a  commercial  value  beyond  that  of  nearly, 
if  not  quite,  all  his  worthy  contemporaries,  and  be- 
comes a  temptation  to  many  publishers. 

The  profession  of  letters  deserves  and  commands 
a  commercial  profit.  In  periodical  literature  before 
the  nineteenth  century  this  was  a  comparatively 
insignificant  factor.  And  afterward,  in  the  early 
Blackwood  period,  when  a  circulation  of  six  thousand 
copies  was   considered   a   triumphant   success,   the 

87 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

payment  of  eminent  contributors  was  modestly  dis- 
guised as  an  honorarium ;  the  other  contributors 
were  "literary  hacks"  and  were  poorly  paid.  When 
fiction  of  the  higher  order  became  an  important 
element  in  magazines,  and  when,  later,  the  literary 
hack  was,  in  the  natural  course  of  progress,  excluded, 
the  prizes  of  periodical  literature  rapidly  increased 
— more  rapidly  in  America  than  in  England.  The 
names  of  prominent  writers,  because  they  represent- 
ed essential  worth,  had  also,  and  legitimately,  a 
corresponding  commercial  value.  This  element  was 
recognized  before  magazines  published  names  with 
contributions;  distinction  could  not  escape  appre- 
ciation, and  authorship  soon  became  an  open  secret. 

In  this  situation,  the  new  writer  shared  with  the 
older,  and  in  proportion  to  his  merit,  the  praise  of 
readers.  He  had  a  fair  chance.  His  peril,  and  the 
peril  to  literature,  came  with  the  use  of  names  as 
potent  in  themselves,  and  with  the  assumption  that 
they  were  the  inevitable  and  indispensable  condition 
of  success.  The  most  unfortunate  circumstance  con- 
nected with  the  immediate  disclosure  of  authorship 
by  the  publication  of  the  names  of  contributors  is 
that  the  custom  was  adopted  at  a  time  when  it 
seemed  likely  to  do  the  most  harm,  by  giving  comi- 
tenance  to  this  unwarranted  assumption. 

Happily,  the  real  effect  of  the  perils  we  have  men- 
tioned— that  of  the  substitution  of  notoriety  for 
substantial  distinction  and  that  of  the  eclipse  of  in- 
trinsic worth  by  the  acknowledged  omnipotence  of 

88 


THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

names  associated  with  success — has  been  only  to 
more  sharply  draw  the  lines  of  selection  in  both 
book  and  periodical  publications,  but  more  especially 
in  the  latter,  because,  while  the  reader  chooses  what 
books  he  will  buy,  he  does  not  share  with  the  pub- 
lisher the  selection  of  articles  in  a  magazine,  except 
indirectly  through  his  exercise  of  choice  between 
periodicals.  Therefore  it  is  that  the  first  -  class 
magazines  have  become  the  principal  safeguards  of 
literature  against  its  deterioration.  It  is  com- 
paratively easier  for  them  to  withstand  obviously 
corrupting  influences,  by  rejecting  sensational  or 
otherwise  unworthy  features,  than  it  is  to  resist  in- 
sidious temptations;  and  what  could  be  more  in- 
sinuating than  the  persuasiveness  of  a  great  name, 
the  undiscriminating  acceptance  of  which,  without 
appraisal  of  the  production  which  bears  it,  would  be 
so  readily  condoned  by  a  large  body  of  readers? 
That  is  a  good  part  of  the  difficulty — the  necessity 
of  guarding  readers  against  their  own  easy  acqui- 
escence. Writers,  too,  have  to  be  guarded  against 
themselves  —  against  the  overbearing  attitude  of 
some  of  them  who  insist  upon  that  unconditional 
suiTcnder  of  the  editor  which  encourages  too  facile 
and  sometimes  feeble  accomplishment.  It  is  not 
fair  to  the  author — setting  aside  all  other  questions 
of  fairness — to  accept  without  consideration  what- 
ever he  may,  in  any  kind  of  circumstances  affecting 
his  production,  have  to  offer,  in  response  to  the  edi- 
tor's expressed  and  genuine  desire  for  his  work. 

89 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Even  commerce  implies  reciprocal  benefits  and 
obligations.  The  author  who  ignores  editorial  ap- 
proval lends  his  authority  to  the  prevalent  assump- 
tion that  it  is  the  name  and  not  the  thing  that 
counts,  as  the  editor  who  allows  himself  to  play  the 
dummy  in  so  important  a  transaction  confesses  to 
the  truth  of  that  assumption. 

For  ourselves,  it  is  our  habit  as  well  as  our  choice 
to  read  every  manuscript  without  any  reference  to 
the  name  of  the  writer,  and  to  reach  our  decision 
upon  it  before  we  acquaint  ourselves  with  that  pure- 
ly incidental  and  secondary  fact.  If,  when  our 
opinion  is  a  favorable  one,  and  we  finally  look  for 
the  name,  we  find  that  it  is  one  we  have  never  seen 
before,  we  experience  that  rare  pleasure  familiar  to 
every  editor  who  is  capable  of  enthusiasm  in  the 
cause  he  maintains. 

How  far  astray  is  the  new  and  unknown  writer 
who  fancies  that  he  has  no  chance  in  competition 
with  the  favored  expert!  He  little  knows  how 
eagerly  his  distinction  of  quality,  if  he  has  it,  is  wel- 
comed, even  in  preference  to  the  distinction  of  an 
established  reputation.  Only  too  easily  is  the  old 
displaced  by  the  new.  The  manuscripts  submitted 
to  the  editor  of  any  first-rate  magazine — however 
many  of  them  there  may  be — receive  his  earnest 
personal  attention,  lest  by  any  chance  the  writer 
with  the  new  note  should  escape  his  recognition. 
But,  even  after  the  recognition,  there  is  the  slow 

90 


THE    PASSING   OF   ANONYMITY 

development  of  the  new  author's  fruition.  How- 
ever sure  the  growth,  it  must  be  nourished.  He  be- 
comes in  time  the  old,  the  experienced  author.  His 
readers  have  grown  wth  him ;  having  been  initiated 
by  him  into  some  new  mysteries  that  could  have 
been  disclosed  only  by  his  magical  power,  they  have 
waited  upon  him  for  new  revelations  with  frankly 
avowed  confidence  and  loving  expectation,  and  they 
would  not  willingly  have  the  revels  ended  or  see  him 
lay  aside  the  master's  wand.  Younger  writers,  try- 
ing their  wings,  look  up  to  him,  taking  courage  from 
his  bolder  flight,  which  they  emulate  without  envy. 
He  is  the  elder  brother  in  the  fraternity  of  letters; 
even  his  characteristic  faults  are  fondly  indiilged; 
no  one  so  ill-natured  as  to  wish  him  jostled  aside  to 
give  place  to  any  new-comer.  We  have  seen  them 
one  after  another,  with  different  degrees  of  exalta- 
tion— Irving,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Curtis,  Lowell, 
Holmes,  Warner,  Stoddard,  Aldrich,  and  Stedman, 
who  have  passed  away,  crowned  with  love  and 
laurels;  and  Howells  and  Mark  Twain,  who  still 
graciously  lend  their  strong  presences  to  our  living 
world  of  letters.  Room  for  them  ?  Yes,  the  Upper 
Room,  where  we  spread  our  gratefiil  feast  for  these 
who  have  had  so  long  the  freedom  of  our  hearts ! 

It  is  not  the  new  name  that  counts  any  more  than 
it  is  the  old  one,  with  its  cherished  associations.  The 
undiscriminating  reader  might  as  easily  err  in  one 
extreme  as  the  other.  He  might  ask  for  a  new  deal 
in  every  one  of  a  motley  procession  of  numbers.    It  is 

91 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

the  best  things  that  are  wanted  in  any  number,  what- 
ever names  may  be  attached  to  them,  and,  while  we 
regard  it  as  of  the  first  importance  to  Uterature  that 
the  earliest  expression  of  individual  genius  should 
be  not  only  protected  against  any  overshadowing 
weight  of  established  authority,  but  be  welcomed 
enthusiastically — as  we  believe  it  is  by  readers  as 
well  as  by  editors, — still  it  is  not  a  case  where  we  are 
off  with  the  old  love  before  we  are  on  with  the  new. 
The  magazine  is  a  continuous  culture,  maintained 
chiefly  by  experienced  writers,  but  ever  reinforced 
and  constantly  lifted  to  a  higher  plane  by  those  who 
certainly,  if  inexpertly,  sound  the  note  which  is  to 
be  the  dominant  in  a  new  harmony. 

The  demand  for  the  publication  of  authors'  names 
in  the  magazine  of  to-day  has  a  rational  justification 
because  of  the  intimacy  of  writer  and  reader  in  our 
modern  literature.  We  do  not  care  for  the  per- 
sonality of  the  showman  when  our  attention  is  wholly 
absorbed  by  the  spectacle.  But  when  all  other  masks 
are  renounced,  and  writer  and  reader  meet  on  the 
same  plane — each  a  sensible  partner  in  the  com- 
munication— why  retain  the  mask  of  anonymity  ? 


CHAPTER   IX 

PRIZES    OF    AUTHORSHIP, 

MUCH  as  we  hear  nowadays  of  the  commer- 
cialization of  literature,  it  is  pleasant  to  re- 
flect that  great  authorship  has  never  been 
associated  with  unworthy  motives.  The  manifesta- 
tion of  genius  is  so  spontaneous  than  it  seems  amiss 
to  speak  of  it  as  having  motives  of  any  sort.  If  in 
exceptional  instances  individual  traits  are  disclosed 
which  we  deprecate  or  deem  unhappy,  the  incentive 
to  expression  has  been  noble  and  ingenuous,  free 
from  the  taint  of  mean  and  sordid  considerations. 

Shakespeare  made  stagecraft  a  profitable  busi- 
ness— a  fact  which  reflects  credit  upon  his  practi- 
cal judgment, — but  the  quality  of  his  poetic  genius 
which  made  him  immortal  was  distinctly  manifest 
in  what  he  wrote  before  he  was  known  as  a  play- 
wright, and,  in  any  case,  could  not  be  commercially 
accounted  for.  Bacon  as  a  writer  could  not  have 
even  had  such  temptations  as  beset  him  in  his  ju- 
dicial office.  Authors  who  were  useful  to  their 
patrons  have  not  by  that  utility  laid  claim  to  the 
greatness  ascribed  to  them  by  their  contemporaries 

93 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

or  by  posterity.  Apart  from  the  prizes  of  the  theatre 
and  the  benefits  of  patronage,  no  writer,  ancient  or 
modern,  before  the  eighteenth  century,  derived  any 
substantial  pecuniary  profit  from  his  work.  Homer 
sang  with  ethnic  enthusiasm,  reflecting  the  bright- 
ness of  the  heroic  past — as  other  epic  poets  have 
done  for  other  races, — Hesiod,  for  a  religious  cult 
and  an  ethical  purpose,  and  the  later  Greek  poets 
for  the  perfection  of  their  art  and  the  glory  of  their 
respective  cities.  The  Augustan  age  of  Rome  gave 
Horace  his  Maecenas,  Virgil  the  favor  of  the  court, 
and  both  these  writers  something  like  what  we  mod- 
erns call  publication.  If  they  could  not  "see  them- 
selves in  print" — as  indeed  no  writer  could  before 
the  time  of  Rabelais, — such  personal  vanity  as  they 
may  have  had  derived  no  slight  satisfaction  from 
elegant  copies  of  their  poems,  which  they  knew 
were  also  the  possession  and  pride  of  their  polite 
contemporaries.  Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  and 
Chaucer  had  the  same  delightful  experience.  But 
their  chief  reward  was  in  the  recognition  of  a  noble 
acquaintance,  which  they  shared  with  Plato  and  all 
those  greatest  writers  of  antiquity  who  had  sudden- 
ly come  into  their  modern  kingdom,  passing  from 
porch,  academe,  and  forum  into  the  studies  of  the 
learned  and  into  the  boudoirs  of  princesses  and 
courtly  ladies. 

These  lofty  examples  of  genius  might  too  easily 
lead  us  to  false  conclusions.  Opportunity  did  not 
open  any  door  to  great  writers  for  the  exploitation 

94 


PRIZES   OF   AUTHORSHIP 

of  literature  with  sordid  motives.  Their  memorable 
achievements  only  prove  that  such  motives  are  not 
necessary  for  the  stimulation  and  exercise  of  the 
highest  powers.  If  political  influence,  official  and 
social  prestige,  and  such  material  benefits  as  may 
have  attended  them  were  not  refused,  we  know  that 
they  were  incidentally  a  reward  and  neither  the  lure 
nor  the  price  of  the  supreme  expression.  For  then, 
as  always,  the  native  attitude  of  genius  toward 
merely  material  possessions  was  one  of  disdain  or  of 
mastery.  We  note  even  in  the  business  world  such 
an  attitude  as  distinguishing  the  genius  of  organi- 
zation from  the  common  mercantile  mind,  wholly 
absorbed  in  accumulation. 

In  that  long  period  when  there  was  no  popular 
audience  for  literature,  the  old  aristocratic  regime 
had  full  dominion,  and  even  the  exceptional  genius, 
lifted  from  the  lower  ranks  through  patronage  or 
through  the  opportunity  for  success  in  the  theatre, 
was  brought,  with  easy  consent,  into  alliance  with 
this  order  of  things.  The  hireling  and  the  trades- 
man were  in  contempt,  and  an  injurious  prejudice 
against  them  persisted  long  after  the  elevation  of 
the  middle  class,  through  education  and  democratic 
revolt,  so  that  when  the  publishing  business  began 
to  exist  as  a  distinct  craft  in  the  hands  of  Tonson 
and  of  his  imitators  and  successors,  the  creators  of 
a  polite  literature  were  for  some  time  disposed  to 
avoid  or  conceal  relations  with  this  new  class  of 
shopkeepers.     The  successful  establishment  of  such 

95 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

a  trade  was  possible  for  the  first  time  through  the 
support  of  a  popular  constituency.  The  popular  peri- 
odical miscellany  was  sure  to  follow,  but  it  was  pre- 
ceded by  the  essay  serial,  established  on  individual 
responsibility  by  the  wits  of  the  town,  and  appealing 
to  the  tastes  of  the  elegant.  The  shop  boldly  as- 
serted itself  when  Mr.  Cave  started  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  and  has  held  its  own  ever  since,  with 
ever-advancing  dignity.  Nevertheless,  contributors 
avoided  publicity,  and  those  of  the  more  distin- 
guished class  felt  that  some  stigma  was  attached  to 
any  bargaining  with  the  shopkeepers.  Enterprising 
publishers  of  the  next  century,  the  Constables  and 
Murrays  and  Blackwoods,  encountered  the  same 
sensitiveness.  Wilson  and  Lockhart  made  no  pe- 
cuniary charge  for  years  of  editorial  assistance  to 
Mr.  Blackwood  on  his  magazine. 

In  this  respect  there  was  a  marked  distinction 
between  the  book  and  the  magazine  contribution. 
So  long  as  the  popular  magazine  continued  to  be 
mainly  a  miscellany,  the  book  naturally  seemed  a 
more  dignified  form  of  publication,  and  its  author 
obviously  conferred  a  favor  upon  the  publisher,  who 
became  his  obedient  servant  in  the  business  trans- 
action. Though  the  writer,  along  with  the  greater 
dignity,  obtained  also  a  larger  profit,  the  pecuniary 
reward  was  free  from  the  taint  of  the  shop.  Dr. 
Johnson  received  more  from  his  Rasselas,  the  work 
of  a  week,  for  which  he  was  paid  £12^,  than  he 

96 


PRIZES  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

could  have  earned  upon  a  magazine  by  the  assidu- 
ous labor  of  six  months.  As  early  as  1818  William 
Blackwood  paid  Miss  Susan  Ferrier,  then  an  un- 
known writer,  ;^i5o  for  the  book  rights  of  her 
first  novel,  Marriage.  For  the  second  novel  of  this 
author,  who  at  once  took  her  place  alongside  of 
Miss  Edgeworth  and  Miss  Austen,  portraying  Scotch 
society  as  vividly  and  with  as  much  humor  as 
these  had  the  Irish  and  the  English,  Blackwood 
paid  in  advance  £1000 — this  sum  not  including  the 
entire  copyright.  The  costly  editions  of  books, 
though  small,  from  our  point  of  view,  in  the  number 
of  sales — six  thousand  copies  having  been  con- 
sidered very  fair  in  the  case  of  the  extremely  popular 
"Waverley" — netted  very  large  profits. 

What  most  surprises  us  in  the  comparison  of 
those  times  with  our  own  is  the  high  record  of  prices 
for  volumes  of  verse.  Of  course,  the  offer  by  Long- 
mans of  3000  guineas  to  Tom  Moore  for  "Lalla 
Rookh,"  before  that  poem  was  written,  was  without 
precedent,  though  it  became  one  for  prices  after- 
ward received  by  him.  But  Tom  Moore  was  never 
mercenary.  It  is  recorded  of  him  that  he  paid  a 
debt  of  several  thousand  pounds,  incurred  by  the 
error  of  his  deputy  at  Bermuda,  and  refused  a  sub- 
scription from  Whig  friends,  headed  by  a  young  no- 
bleman who  afterward  became  prime-minister — Lord 
John  Russell. 

For  the  "  Siege  of  Corinth  "  and  "  Parisina  "  Murray 

97 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

sent  Byron  his  draft  for  ;^iooo,  which  the  poet  re- 
turned on  the  ground  that  the  poems  were  not  worth 
so  much,  decHning  also  the  offer  of  ;£2  5o  additional, 
which  brought  the  payment  up  to  the  rate  of  ;^i  a  line. 
Lord  Byron  finally  yielded  to  Murray's  importunity 
for  the  separate  publication  of  the  poems,  the  more 
readily  because  he  was  financially  embarrassed ;  but 
his  first  resistance  reflects  credit  upon  his  modesty 
as  well  as  upon  his  judgment. 

Pope  had  made  ^9000,  nearly  a  century  earlier, 
by  his  translation  of  Homer's  Ihad  and  Odyssey. 
Mr.  John  Bigelow,  in  his  Life  of  Bryant,  compares 
the  profits  which  the  latter  poet  received  from  his 
version  of  Homer  with  those  received  by  Pope  in  a 
very  suggestive  paragraph  which  throws  light  upon 
the  diverse  conditions  of  publication  in  these  two 
epochs,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  apart.  In 
1888 — seventeen  years  after  the  completion  of  his 
translation — Bryant's  sales  had  amounted  to  27,244 
copies,  against  less  than  2000  copies  of  Pope's  during 
a  corresponding  period.  Yet  Pope's  income  from 
sales  was  nearly  three  times  as  much  as  Bryant's, 
which  amounted  to  $1 7 ,000.  This  is  to  be  accounted 
for  by  the  large  number  of  volumes  standing  for  a 
copy  and  by  the  higher  price — a  guinea  a  volume. 
"  There  is,"  says  Mr.  Bigelow,  "  a  moral  for  publishers 
and  authors  in  the  circumstance  that  while  3283 
copies  of  the  more  costly  8vo  edition  of  [Bryant's] 
Iliad  were  selling,  5449  copies  of  the  i2mo  edition  in 
two  volumes  were  disposed  of."     The  comparative 

98 


PRIZES   OF   AUTHORSHIP 

royalties  were,  from  the  cheaper  edition,  $4713.60, 
and,  from  the  more  costly,  $811.80. 

The  poets  seem  to  have  had  their  heyday  before 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  poetry 
was  superseded  in  the  public  interest  by  fiction.  A 
poet  making  his  first  venture  with  a  London  pub- 
lisher might,  as  Mark  Akenside  did  with  "Pleasures 
of  the  Imagination,"  accompanied  by  a  commenda- 
tory word  from  Pope,  get  downright  a  copyright 
payment  of  £120.  To-day  an  unknown  poet  would 
more  likely  be  asked  to  guarantee  the  publisher  in 
advance  by  himself  paying  from  a  half  to  three- 
fourths  of  that  sum.  Crabbe,  with  an  introduction 
from  Burke,  was  as  fortunate  as  Akenside  had  been. 
Sustained  poems  of  considerable  length,  like  Beattie's 
"Last  Minstrel,"  Campbell's  "Pleasures  of  Hope," 
Gray's  "Elegy,"  and  Thomson's  "Seasons,"  had  a 
popular  success  and  were  profitable  to  their  authors. 
Pollock's  "Course  of  Time,"  written  by  a  consump- 
tive youth,  who  died  in  1827,  six  months  after  its 
publication,  reached  in  its  second  year  a  sale  of 
twelve  thousand  copies,  and  for  many  years  after- 
ward was  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  Blackwood's 
literary  properties. 

Some  of  these  poets  may  have  sent  their  first 
amateurish  effusions  to  the  Gentleman's  Magazine, 
but  we  would  look  in  vain  to  find  even  the  briefest 
of  their  mature  productions  in  such  miscellanies. 
Moore  and  Wordsworth  preferred  to  see  their  lyrics 
and  sonnets  in  a  good  daily  newspaper  like  the 
8  99 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

Morning  Post.  The  brightest  essayists  showed  the 
same  preference  when  they  were  not  writing  for 
periodicals  of  their  own  origination  or  such  as  were 
especially  devoted  to  criticism.  It  was  not  till  the 
advent  of  Blackwood's  and  the  London  Magazine 
that  writers  like  De  Quincey  and  Lamb  or  such  a 
poet  as  Hood  contributed  to  periodicals  of  a  popu- 
lar character.  Dr.  Johnson  had  in  his  time — half  a 
century  earlier — stood  quite  alone  in  this  kind  of 
service. 

Conditions  were  rapidly  changing  in  the  publish- 
ing business,  in  the  character  of  periodicals,  and  in 
the  reading  world.  Books  were  not  so  dependent 
for  success  upon  the  patronage  of  subscribers.  A 
frankly  commercial  relation  existed  between  the 
author  and  the  publisher,  under  regulations  bene- 
ficial to  both,  and  on  the  part  of  both  there  was  an 
increasing  appreciation  of  well-earned  popularity. 
In  the  thirties,  after  the  triumph  of  the  Reform 
Bill,  books  were  reduced  in  price,  and  there  were 
cheaper  publications — some  of  a  wretched  sort  ap- 
pealing to  low  taste,  but  others,  like  Knight's  Penny 
Magazine,  of  an  informing  and  improving  character. 
It  was  in  this  period  that  the  great  London  literary 
weeklies  were  established,  after  the  type  of  the 
Examiner.  Such  writers  as  Leigh  Hunt  and  Hazlitt, 
whose  names  suggest  a  brilliant  group  of  their  con- 
temporaries, had  then  ample  opportunity  in  the  wide 
and  varied  field  of  periodical  literature. 

100 


PRIZES   OF   AUTHORSHIP 

But  the  prizes  in  the  field,  though  excellent,  were 
not  dazzling.  Ten  guineas  a  sheet  for  Coleridge  was 
about  the  limit  of  Blackwood's  remuneration  to  any 
author.  This  pubHsher  distinctly  declared  that  he 
never  did  and  never  would  "  hold  out  money  in  itself 
as  an  inducement  to  men  of  talents  to  write  for 
'Maga.'"  His  most  distinguished  contributors  held 
the  same  exalted  view  of  literature.  The  Edinburgh 
Review  paid  at  first  ten  guineas  a  sheet,  and  rose 
gradually  to  double  that  sum.  Jeffrey,  who  was  the 
editor  until  1829,  would  accept  no  unpaid-for  con- 
tributions, fearing  that  the  proprietors  might  other- 
wise favor  a  certain  class  of  contributors. 

America  at  that  time  had  no  monthly  magazine 
to  compare  with  Blackwood,  and  the  pecuniary  re- 
wards of  such  literature  as  then  existed  were  in- 
significant. When  Bryant  was  contributing  to  the 
Boston  Literary  Gazette,  he  modestly  offered  his 
poems  at  two  dollars  apiece,  but  the  editor,  The- 
ophilus  Parsons,  set  a  higher  value  upon  them. 
Among  the  poems  thus  offered  were  several  of  his 
best.  And  this  was  seven  years  after  the  publica- 
tion of  his  "Thanatopsis."  The  North  American 
Review,  at  the  time  when  Longfellow  and  Prescott 
were  contributing  to  it,  paid  a  dollar  a  page.  This 
was  the  period  in  which  American  literary  sensi- 
bility was  so  far  in  advance  of  American  literary 
production  that  the  periodical  essays  of  Macaulay, 
De  Quincey,  and  Carlyle  were  collected  and  published 
in  book  form  by  American  publishers  before  a  like 

lOI 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

distinction  was  conferred  upon  them  in  England. 
From  this  fact,  taken  in  connection  with  the  low 
prices  paid  to  the  most  promising  authors,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  a  true  appreciation  of  literature  is  not 
necessarily  indicated  by  a  monetary  standard. 

The  contrasting  situation  which  is  presented  in 
our  own  time  has  come  about  naturally  and  in- 
evitably, inasmuch  as  there  must  be  commercial 
equilibration  between  values  and  prices;  yet  some 
unhappy  reflections  and  misgivings  arise  in  us  when 
we  consider  the  kinds  of  value  which  have  to  be  al- 
lowed for  in  our  contemporary  estimate  of  literature. 
Our  regret  is  only  the  more  poignant  when  irrefra- 
gable arguments  convince  us  that  the  distortion  of 
what  should  seem  to  be  a  just  perspective  is  also  in- 
evitable. Almost  we  ask,  when  we  contemplate  the 
present  conditions  of  publication,  has  the  salt  of 
literature  lost  its  savor  for  those  who  deal  in  it 
commercially  and  who  are  apparently  responsible 
for  these  conditions,  if  anybody  can  be  held  respon- 
sible for  tendencies  confessedly  inevitable  ? 

It  is  within  our  memory  that  the  only  factors 
in  the  business  of  publication  were  the  author,  the 
publisher,  the  bookseller,  and  the  reader.  Of  these, 
the  old-fashioned  bookseller,  who  knew  and  intelli- 
gently appreciated  the  books  he  handled,  has  been 
driven  to  the  wall,  and  the  mechanical  system  which 
has  taken  his  place  is  blind  to  every  value  he  rec- 
ognized and  eagerly  aware  of  those  values  which  to 

J02 


PRIZES  OF  AUTHORSHIP 

him  had  no  significance,  but  which  have  now  come 
to  the  front,  determining  through  indiscriminate 
advertisment  the  choice  of  a  fickle  multitude  of 
book-buyers.  The  record  of  big  sales  is  paraded  as 
in  itself  a  certificate  of  merit.  The  relation  of  the 
publisher  to  author  and  reader  has  lost  much  of  its 
former  frankness  and  simplicity.  The  literary  agent 
on  the  one  side  and  the  "trade"  on  the  other  seek 
to  force  his  hand,  and  if  they  do  not  make  him  an 
out-and-out  merchant,  with  an  eye  only  to  the 
market,  it  is  because  he  has  uncommon  virtues  of 
resistance.  We  are  optimistic  enough  to  presume 
that  he  may  maintain  a  wisely  chosen  alternative. 

We  trust  that  we  are  catholic  enough  also  to 
properly  appreciate  the  claims  of  that  vast  sum  of 
current  literature,  whether  in  books  or  periodicals, 
which,  however  evanescent,  rests  upon  a  solid  and 
legitimate  commercial  basis  and  has  relatively  both 
use  and  worth,  serving  its  day  and  generation.  The 
newspapers  throughout  the  country  abound  in  this 
kind  of  writing,  which,  though  modestly  rewarded, 
gives  an  opportunity  to  many  thousands  for  a  whole- 
some and  interesting  exercise  of  mental  talent;  and 
not  unfrequently  out  of  this  nursery  emerges  a  not- 
able author  of  a  higher,  if  not  of  the  highest,  type. 
It  is,  in  our  opinion,  a  fortunate  circumstance  that 
there  are  so  many  books  and  periodicals  which,  while 
they  do  not  appeal  to  highly  cultivated  readers,  are 
yet  stepping-stones  to  a  loftier  plane  of  intellectual 

103 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

and  emotional  satisfactions,  and  when  a  writer  in  this 
field  through  unusual  talent  wins  large  esteem  and 
ample  prosperity,  we  do  not  complain  because  he  has 
not  the  brilliance  of  George  Meredith  or  the  charm 
of  Howells.  That  commercialism  of  literature  which 
secures  such  excellence  and  such  rewards  is  an  honor 
to  civilization. 

What  we  should  deprecate  is  that  meretricious 
commerce  which  lowers  the  standards  of  both  life 
and  literature  by  holding  out  money  as  the  chief  in- 
ducement to  the  exercise  of  genius  or  talent.  No 
writer  can  do  his  best  if  his  highest  prize  is  not  that 
of  excellence,  if  the  joy  of  his  work  is  not  his  greatest 
satisfaction.  This  is  the  gospel  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  in  literature,  and  to  the  author  who  has  this 
kingdom  within  him  all  other  things  are  added  that 
are  of  any  real  worth  or  can  be  worthily  enjoyed. 
To  him  is  given  the  high  privilege  of  the  society  of 
noble  minds — an  immortal  society  continued  from 
one  generation  to  another — and  of  participation  in 
its  far-reaching  aspirations,  to  which  he  gives  form 
and  utterance  as  a  master-builder  in  its  temple  of 
beauty  and  truth.  This  society  and  its  recognition 
of  him  is  far  more  to  him  than  any  cheap  fame  or 
material  emolument  which  more  and  more  the  mar- 
ket presses  upon  his  attention,  invading  the  temple 
itself.  He  has  not  only  scorn  for  the  sellers  that 
offer  him  the  world  for  his  soul,  but  the  scourge  to 
drive  them  out. 

The  courage  to  maintain  this  position,  ideal  as  it 

104 


PRIZES   OF   AUTHORSHIP 

may  seem,  is  not  so  rare  but  that  it  has  been  the 
possession  of  every  master  in  literature,  even  to  the 
present  moment.  There  are  no  names  save  of  these 
masters  to  which  the  market  itself  has  paid  such 
perennial  tribute.  Cheap  fame  is  short-lived,  and 
sordid  traders,  well  enough  aware  of  this  fact,  make 
the  most  of  the  bubble  before  it  breaks.  The 
books  of  many  of  the  greatest  living  authors,  English 
and  American,  have  seemed,  on  their  first  issue,  to 
have  small  sales  in  comparison  with  those  of  far  in- 
ferior writers;  but  they  have  continued  to  sell  year 
after  year,  justifying  the  wisdom  of  their  publishers. 
They  constitute  the  literature  of  every  well-ordered 
library.  Even  periodicals  which  have  bid  first  of  all 
for  merely  popular  success  eagerly  offer  such  writers 
three  or  four  times  the  liberal  prices  paid  them  by 
magazines  through  which  their  names  have  won 
world-wide  familiarity. 

The  prestige  of  a  magazine  depends  upon  its  qual- 
ity— that  is,  upon  its  record  for  the  maintenance 
of  high  standards  in  its  literature.  Popularity  can- 
not confer  it,  any  more  than  it  can  win  for  it  that 
affection  which  goes  with  high  esteem.  One  of  the 
values  of  such  prestige  is  that  it  attracts  writers 
who  care  more  for  a  distinguishing  quality  in  their 
work  than  for  its  pecuniary  reward.  The  contribu- 
tor shares  in  the  prestige  and  appreciates  its  worth 
to  him.  By  the  law  which  inheres  in  the  fitness  of 
things,  a  magazine  of  distinction  can  always  afford 

105 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

to  pay  liberal  prices,  and  it  does  not  need  to  bid 
against  others  by  tempting  offers  of  money  to  its 
writers  in  order  to  hold  them  to  a  natural  allegiance. 
Magazines  of  this  class  are  becomingly  proud  of 
names  which  represent  real  distinction  in  the  world 
of  letters  and  association  with  which  betokens  no- 
ble alliances,  but  they  would  not  wield  the  brutum 
fulmen  of  a  name  signifying  merely  phenomenal  suc- 
cess for  advertising  purposes — would,  indeed,  rather 
repudiate  altogether  the  possession  of  the  name  it- 
self, as  a  title  of  ignobility. 

The  art  of  a  writer  justly  entitles  him  to  a  recog- 
nition corresponding  to  the  degree  of  its  excellence; 
but  for  the  uses  of  a  periodical  the  excellence  must 
be  not  merely  technical  —  it  must  be  that  which 
secures  appeal,  compelling  sympathetic  response. 
The  master  motif  is  essential  to  all  great  art.  The 
expert  writer,  with  all  his  felicity  of  phrasing  and 
the  perfection  of  an  .exquisite  manner,  but  as  soul- 
less as  a  faultlessly  dressed  model,  should  not  com- 
plain that  his  faculty  counts  for  so  little  even  in  com- 
parison with  the  rough  and  halting  expression  of  a 
writer  endowed  with  the  inward  grace  and  native 
dignity  of  simple  manhood.  The  power  of  appeal, 
reinforced  by  aesthetic  charm,  sets  an  author  apart, 
and  the  prizes  he  wins,  expressed  in  spiritual  or 
material  terms,  are  an  accidental  glory.  Who  is 
rich  enough  to  pay  him  for  his  work?  Who  shall 
even  make  mention  of  fame  in  the  presence  of  one 
who  himself  has  the  gift  of  the  knightly  accolade? 

io6 


PRIZES   OF   AUTHORSHIP 

The  wealth  of  a  kingdom  could  not  buy  a  single  great 
poem.     Here  money  is  but  a  tribute  to  sovereignty. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  a  contributor  honestly 
and  without  incurring  the  imputation  of  immodesty 
thinks  himself  insufficiently  rewarded,  comparing 
his  own  merits  with  those  of  other  writers  who,  as 
he  knows,  receive  higher  rates.  Thackeray,  after 
he  had  by  his  Ycllowplush  Papers  become  the 
most  popular  contributor  to  Eraser's  Magazine, 
very  justly  complained  that  other  contributors  were 
better  paid,  and  struck  for  twelve  guineas  a  sheet — 
not  quite  four  dollars  a  page.  That  was  seventy 
years  ago.  Different  magazines  of  the  same  class 
vary  in  their  estimates  of  particiilar  values  according 
to  the  variations  determined  by  their  own  individual 
preferences,  since  each  is  in  some  way  distinct  from 
the  others,  and  is  willing  to  pay  more  for  what  it  es- 
pecially desires.  Even  in  stories  there  is  this  dis- 
tinction of  individual  preference.  Sooner  or  later 
the  writer  finds  his  affinity,  and  the  equilibrium  is 
restored  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  concerned. 

As  with  the  advent  of  the  monthly  magazine  an 
opportunity  was  for  the  first  time  given  to  writers, 
independently  of  their  material  circumstances  or 
social  condition,  and  even  of  their  experience  in  the 
world  of  letters,  to  achieve  in  varying  degrees,  ac- 
cording to  their  powers,  distinction  and  profit,  so, 
in  the  progress  of  magazines  toward  a  higher  excel- 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

lence  in  every  department  of  literature,  their  con- 
tributors have  been  stimulated  by  more  eager  enthu- 
siasm and  a  loftier  literary  purpose  as  well  as  by  a 
larger  hope  of  legitimate  financial  success.  Writers 
of  fiction  have  gained  the  greatest  advantage  through 
this  medium  of  communication  with  an  appreciative 
audience,  their  crude  but  promising  early  work  pre- 
paring the  way  for  brilliant  triumphs.  How  many 
of  these  young  writers  would  have  fallen  by  the  way, 
victims  of  inexorable  circumstance,  but  for  this  en- 
couragement ! 

The  crucial  test  of  a  publisher's  attitude,  of  his 
esteem  for  literature  on  its  intrinsic  merits,  is  his 
appreciation  of  a  worthy  unknown  writer.  He  is 
willing,  as  such  an  author  or  contributor  is  also  likely 
to  be,  to  let  the  commercial  success  of  his  under- 
taking take  care  of  itself,  as  something  purely  in- 
cidental. His  faith  is  in  the  only  readers  he  cares  to 
have — those  who  can  discern  merit  on  its  simple  dis- 
closure. There  are  in  England  and  America  a  re- 
spectable number  of  publishing  houses  which  have 
developed  a  corresponding  faith  in  generations  of 
readers,  and  the  periodicals  which  they  have  es- 
tablished enjoy  the  same  confidence,  A  new  pub- 
lisher, following  their  example,  like  the  promising 
new  writer,  is  sure  of  speedy  recognition. 

There  still  remains  the  quiet  world  of  culture, 
whose  garden  ever  grows.  There  all  really  great 
literature  thrives  in  untainted  prosperity. 

1 08 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    MODERN    WRITER'S    PROSPERITY    WITH    HIS 

AUDIENCE 

THE  desire  for  fame,  as  a  motive  to  literary- 
expression,  seems  to  us  hardly  worth  consid- 
ering, though  it  is  generally  assumed  to  be 
the  strongest  incentive,  and  the  noblest,  if  it  is  an 
aspiration  and  not  an  ambition. 

"  The  thoughts  of  the  boy  are  long,  long  thoughts," 
and  in  this  expansion  of  the  youthful  mind  the  pros- 
pect is  as  immense  as  the  retrospect,  and  the  future 
is  thronged  with  as  eminent  personages,  the  creatures 
of  his  imagination,  as  the  past  is  with  those  history 
has  made  him  acquainted  with.  He  is  a  part  of  this 
coming  eminence,  since  it  has  no  shape  except  in  his 
own  dreams,  but  the  vista  stretching  out  before  him 
and  his  relation  to  it  are  as  vague  as  his  dreams  are. 
What  he  is  to  meet  is  so  different  from  what  he  feigns, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  past,  that  whatever  definite 
goal  he  may  set  before  him  is  likely  to  vanish  and  the 
veil  of  his  cherished  vision  to  be  broken  the  moment 
he  enters  upon  his  course. 

No  great  writer  has  ever  consciously  striven  for  a 

109 


MAGAZINE  WRITING 

deathless  fame.  Such  a  writer  is  wholly  absorbed 
in  his  work.  Any  vague  desire  he  may  have  hitherto 
nourished  is  displaced  by  a  distinct  vision  of  beauty 
and  truth  which  eclipses  every  ulterior  object,  de- 
manding only  and  imperatively  its  own  embodiment. 
Like  Horace,  he  must  be  able  to  say  "  Exegi  monu- 
mentiim''  before  he  exclaims  "  Non  omnis  moriarr' 
It  was  in  an  essay  showing  the  advantages  of 
obscurity  that  Cowley  said:  "I  love  and  commend 
a  true,  good  fame,  because  it  is  the  shadow  of  virtue, 
not  that  it  doth  any  good  to  the  body  which  it  ac- 
companies, but  it  is  an  efficacious  shadow,  and,  like 
that  of  St.  Peter,  cures  the  diseases  of  others."  The 
writer's  immortality  is  not  his  own  concern,  but  that 
of  his  posterity.  To  the  student  of  literature  it  is 
of  interest  because  the  conditions  which  determine 
it  are  inseparable  from  those  which  determine  the 
evolution  of  literature  itself. 

We  have  reached  a  stage  in  this  evolution — have 
reached  it  indeed  at  the  very  point  in  time  where  we 
now  stand — in  which  the  conditions  affecting  an  au- 
thor's prosperity  with  his  present  audienCe,  as  re- 
lated to  that  which  he  may  hope  for  with  any  possible 
audience  of  the  future,  challenge  our  attention.  We 
are  witnessing  the  culmination  of  a  movement  which 
began  two  centuries  ago  and  which  marked  a  dis- 
tinct breach  with  antiquity.  It  was  initiated  with 
the  advent  of  periodical  literature  in  popular  mis- 
cellanies, a  literary  transformation  through  the  diver- 

IIO 


THE   MODERN   WRITER'S   PROSPERITY 

sion  of  genius  into  new  channels,  new  modes  of  ex- 
pression. It  had  an  earlier  cradling,  since  it  was 
really  due  to  an  audience  which  had  expanded  be- 
yond the  limits  of  that  society  of  the  erudite  hitherto 
addressed  by  select  authors — the  society  for  which 
books  like  Bftrton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  was 
written,  and  which  had  fostered  pedantry  in  the 
best  writers,  off  the  stage,  ever  since  there  had  been 
any  English  writing. 

The  wider  audience  consisted,  on  the  one  hand,  of 
the  elegant  and  refined  who,  since  the  Restoration, 
had  welcomed  poets  like  Herrick  and  Butler — the 
author  of  Hudibras — and  Gay  and  Prior,  and,  on 
the  other,  of  the  common  people,  for  whom  Bunyan 
had  written,  and  who  had  been  educated  under  non- 
conformist and  democratic  influences.  This  au- 
dience demanded  a  more  familiar  communication, 
and  periodical  literature,  heralded  by  the  already 
successful  newspaper  and  bold  pamphleteer,  assumed 
that  office.  But  in  this  undertaking  the  periodical 
was  very  soon  surpassed  by  the  novel  of  English 
society,  which  in  its  earliest  examples,  from  the  pen 
of  Henry  Fielding,  was  far  less  antique  than  Doctor 
Johnson's  magazine  essays,  and  which,  in  its  familiar 
appeal  and  idiomatic  speech,  inherited  from  the 
Spectator.  The  novel  was  then  something  quite 
separate  from  the  periodical ;  when  they  coalesced  in 
the  next  century  they  together  finally  accomplished 
the  literary  revolution  which  each  had  indepen- 
dently initiated. 

Ill 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

The  full  effect  of  the  transformation  is  apparent 
only  in  our  own  time,  but,  from  the  first  establish- 
ment of  ready  channels  for  familiar  communication 
between  writers  and  a  large  body  of  readers,  it  is 
obvious  that  both  writing  and  reading  began  to  mean 
something  different  from  what  they  had  meant  be- 
fore. The  modernity  of  literature  has  been  devel- 
oped along  with  that  modernity  of  our  life  which  has 
been  intensified  by  the  employment  of  steam  and 
electricity  for  the  annihilation  of  distance  in  space 
and  time.  The  breach  with  antiquity  was  a  depart- 
ure, not  from  what  we  call  the  ancient  and  mediceval 
world — it  came  too  late  for  definition  in  those  stereo- 
typed terms — but  from  an  old  order  of  life  as  well 
as  of  literature  in  which  the  people  were  supinely 
participant  but  had  no  initiative,  no  voice  but  that 
of  assent.  This  order  had  maintained  itself  long 
after  the  Renaissance,  and  for  more  than  two  cen- 
turies after  the  discovery  of  America.  Class  dis- 
tinctions had  the  fixity  of  established  types,  marked 
by  clearly  visible  external  insignia;  letters  and  the 
fine  arts  were  under  noble  patronage;  the  social  or- 
ganization of  every  realm  was  consolidated  by  mili- 
tary discipline  and,  impelled  in  every  movement  by 
arbitrary  sovereignty,  marched  with  processional 
regularity,  as  if  keeping  step  to  martial  music:  al- 
together a  picturesque  and  impressive  spectacle, 
in  which  monarchs  and  prelates  and  warriors  shone 
with  varied  and  conspicuous  distinction.  The  har- 
mony of  the  order  itself  was  sustained,  by  whatever 

112 


THE    MODERN   WRITERS    PROSPERITY 

frequent  and  devastating  conflicts  the  peace  of  the 
world  was  disturbed.  Its  stability  survived  those 
delimitations  of  empires  which  were  forever  trans- 
forming the  map  of  Europe  and  Asia  and,  later,  of 
America.  The  entire  period  of  its  existence  was 
studded  with  Great  Events,  chiefly  wars,  and  litera- 
ture seemed  mainly  to  be  the  reflection  of  these,  from 
Homer's  story  of  the  siege  of  Troy  to  Addison's  cel- 
ebration of  the  battle  of  Blenheim.  The  writers 
whose  renown  is  bound  up  with  the  splendors  they 
reflected  were  for  the  most  part  poets,  who  kept  step 
with  that  old  processional. 

When  the  people  began  to  have  a  voice  in  public 
affairs  and  a  popular  audience  began  to  determine 
the  course  of  literature,  making  its  demands  felt 
there,  the  ancient  regime  was  doomed,  and  a  writer's 
renown  came  to  depend  upon  his  partnership  w4th 
his  readers — with  their  thought  and  feeling — as  to 
both  his  matter  and  manner.  His  predecessors  had 
shared  the  glory  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  and 
their  fame  was  that  of  a  like  spectacular  eminence. 
Whatever  greatness  they  had  in  themselves  was  rec- 
ognized only  by  the  few  who  still  could  read  them, 
but  their  names  shone  forever  in  the  literary  heavens, 
remote  and  unassailable. 

Such  popular  audiences  as  there  had  been  in  the 
old  regime  were  not  made  up  of  readers,  were  indeed 
illiterate,  listeners  and  lookers-on  at  stage  represen- 
tations, at  forensic  displays,  and  at  stately  political 

"3 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

or  religious  functions.  Whatever  argument  or  theme 
there  was  in  these,  something  for  the  ear  and  the 
mind  beyond  the  visible  spectacle  and  pomp,  was 
familiar,  not  in  the  intimate  appeal,  but  as  relating 
to  myths,  sentiments,  typical  ideas,  held  in  common, 
and  dramatically  or  symbolically  illustrated.  The 
popular  participation  was  simply  that  of  response, 
however  ready  and  enthusiastic,  to  an  outwardly 
imparted   traditional  communication. 

Now  it  was  a  mentally  developed  popular  audi- 
ence of  readers,  which  compelled  the  participation  of 
writers  in  its  own  world — a  world  which  was  growing 
away  from  mute  dependency  and  becoming  some- 
thing on  its  own  account.  In  eighteenth-century 
England  it  was  a  divided  audience,  a  considerable 
part  of  which  was  still  bound  by  old  social  traditions, 
and  all  of  which,  including  even  the  non-conformist 
and  democratic,  was  frankly  conventional.  But  the 
very  existence  of  such  an  audience  was  significant, 
connoting  the  beginning  of  a  new  era  in  literature,  in 
which  writers  were  divested  of  courtly  attire  and  seen 
plain,  submitting  themselves  to  the  estimate  and 
near  regard  of  a  contemporary  public. 

Thus  prose  came  into  vogue  and  was  developed 
at  the  expense  of  poetry.  One  hardly  remembers 
the  names  of  the  poets  laureate  of  that  period.  The 
popular  periodical  reinforced  as  well  as  initiated 
every  characteristic  feature  of  this  prose  devel- 
opment.    It   promoted   the  brokenness  of  literary 

114 


THE   MODERN   WRITER'S    PROSPERITY 

structure,  since  brevity  and  variety  were  the  neces- 
sary conditions  of  its  existence  and  of  its  successful 
appeal  to  an  audience  demanding  the  short  essay. 
We  can  understand  why  Burke  was  not  a  con- 
tributor to  magazines,  preferring  to  institute  that 
massive  year-book,  the  Annual  Register,  which  he 
wrote  himself  and  kept  up  from  1759  to  1788,  find- 
ing through  this  medium  full  scope  for  the  amplitude 
and  elaboration  of  his  splendid  prose.  But  he  had 
that  intense  interest  in  contemporaneous  things 
which  distinguishes  the  periodical,  making  it  always 
the  mirror  of  its  time.  The  society  novel,  which  in 
Fielding's  time  was  far  from  brief,  was  wholly  en- 
gaged in  the  portrayal  of  contemporary  character 
and  manners.  The  concentration  of  public  atten- 
tion upon  affairs  of  the  moment  was  a  distinguishing 
feature  of  the  century.  The  wit  of  Horace  and  the 
satire  of  Juvenal,  revived  in  "Imitations,"  found 
their  butts  and  victims  near  at  hand. 

The  Romantic  revival  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
century  showed  a  strong  tendency  toward  a  reversion 
to  older  types,  but  it  stopped  short  of  antiquity,  was 
more  Gothic  than  it  was,  in  a  general  sense,  mediaeval 
in  its  inspiration,  was  radically  national,  and,  for  the 
poets,  was  more  Elizabethan  than  Gothic.  The  true 
character  of  the  revival  was  apparent  in  the  next 
century,  after  it  had  been  relieved  of  its  barbaric  con- 
ceits, and  Scott  had  concluded  his  picturesque  his- 
torical revels.  Two  more  Great  Events  had  in  the 
mean  time  been  added  to  those  which  thronged  the 
9  115 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

historical  retrospect,  but  radically  different  from 
most  of  these — the  war  of  American  Independence, 
and  the  French  Revolution,  with  its  Napoleonic 
sequel;  and  it  was  these  more  than  Romanticism 
which  inspired  Byron  and  Wordsworth  and  the  poets 
of  their  time.  In  the  clearing  up  after  the  storm 
eighteenth-century  conventionalism  had  disappeared. 

The  laudator  temporis  acti,  always  with  us,  forever 
protests  against  the  passing  of  the  picturesque.  The 
breaking  up  of  the  antique  seems  to  him  a  corruption 
in  our  life  and  literature,  as  to  the  purists  new  locu- 
tions indicate  corruption  in  our  language.  It  does 
not  appear  strange  that  an  author  as  well  versed  in 
Elizabethan  poetry  as  Charles  Lamb  was  should 
have  exclaimed:  "Hang  the  age!  I'll  write  for  an- 
tiquity." But  Lamb  and  Leigh  Hunt  and  Hazlitt 
were  making  a  greater  prose  literature  and  for  a 
wider,  more  eagerly  postulant,  and  better  educated 
audience  than  Johnson  and  Chesterfield  were  making 
a  century  earlier.  Here,  too,  we  find  the  periodical 
leading  the  way.  It  was  the  golden  though  brief 
period  of  the  London  Magazine;  and  Blackwood' s 
Magazine  and  the  Edinburgh  Review  were  in  the 
buoyant  youth  of  their  remarkable  careers.  The 
next  two  generations  were  to  witness  the  full  fruition 
of  Victorian  literature  in  its  few  great  poets  and  its 
many  great  novelists,  and  at  the  same  time  a  mar- 
vellous expansion  of  industry  and  commerce,  fatal 
to  the  old-time  leisure,  filling  the  towns  with  human 

ii6 


THE    MODERN    WRITER'S   PROSPERITY 

drudges  and  with  the  dust  and  soot  and  noise  of 
factories,  and  awakening  the  indignant  protests  of 
Ruskin  and  Carlyle. 

Then  it  was,  midway  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
that  prose  rioted  in  its  triumph  over  poetry — being 
especially  rampant  in  the  two  authors  just  men- 
tioned— monopolizing  all  its  charms,  save  that  of 
the  measured  line;  and  some  of  the  poets — notably 
Whitman  and  to  some  extent  Browning — broke  up 
the  very  mould  of  their  own  art,  as  if  envious  of  the 
freedom  enjoyed  by  the  prose  masters.  This  pre- 
eminence of  "loosened  speech"  is  more  evident  in 
our  day  than  ever  before.  It  is  not  that  the  age  has 
become  prosaic  or  mechanical  or  from  any  decay 
of  imaginative  powers.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
imagination  which  has  been  cultivated,  and  in  lines 
leading  away  from  its  old  devices — lines  of  revolt 
against  artifice  of  every  sort,  metrical,  rhetorical, 
dramatic,  or  even  epigrammatic.  In  breaking  al- 
together with  antiquity  we  at  last  break  with  tradi- 
tion and  behold  the  truth  of  our  human  life  divested 
of  masks — that  is,  we  behold  it  in  its  own  invest- 
ment and  not  in  the  old  clothes  put  upon  it. 

We  have  come,  then,  in  this  extreme  emancipa- 
tion, to  that  art  "which  nature  makes."  The  com- 
munication between  writer  and  reader  is  not  famil- 
iar through  a  symbolism  traditionally  imposed,  but 
it  has  a  new  familiarity,  made  possible  through  the 
response  of  the  developed  sensibility  of  the  reader  to 

117 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

the  creative  faculty  of  the  writer,  so  that  the  com- 
munication is  immediate,  as  if  in  the  light  shared 
by  both,  flashed  from  the  living  truth  itself.  Only 
through  that  response  is  the  disclosure  completed. 
In  this  conjugation  of  minds  in  the  world  of  the 
imagination,  the  participation  of  the  audience  is  an 
indispensable  factor,  determining  the  prosperity  of 
the  writer,  whose  felicity  is  confined  to  such  creative 
communication.  The  temple  of  fame  is  displaced 
by  the  house  of  life.  The  writer  is  remembered  only 
so  long  as  he  is  read.  This  has  been  true  of  authors 
for  at  least  a  hundred  years.  How  different  is  their 
case  as  to  perpetuity  of  fame  from  that  of  the  great 
but  seldom  read  authors  from  Homer  to  Pope! 

In  our  characterization  of  the  communication  be- 
tween the  writer  and  reader  of  to-day  as  familiar, 
we  have  had  in  view  the  attitude  which  both  have  in 
common  toward  nature  and  human  life — seeking  a 
real  comprehension  of  the  truth  in  these.  The  old 
methods  of  mastery  in  literature  have  suffered  no 
change  save  that  determined  by  the  sincerity  of  this 
quest.  The  world  of  man  and  nature  is,  as  it  ever 
must  be,  participant  in  every  artistic  communica- 
tion and  essential  to  its  meaning — the  harbor  for  all 
anchorages  of  the  spirit.  Objective  embodiment  is 
as  necessary  as  ever;  the  accordant  background,  the 
atmosphere — every  feature  of  a  picture — but  all  for 
the  psychical  significance  of  the  truth  disclosed. 
The  distinction  of  the  new  art  from  the  old  is  that 

ii8 


THE   MODERN   WRITER'S   PROSPERITY 

the  world  enters  not  as  a  contrived  spectacle,  and  the 
picture  exists  for  its  reality,  not  for  picturesqueness. 

The  more  of  the  world  there  is  in  a  story  or  in  an 
essay  which  is  a  genuine  creation  of  the  imagination, 
the  greater  the  interest,  since  the  truth  of  life  has 
thus  an  ampler  interpretation  in  its  natural  com- 
plement, and  the  scope  of  human  sympathy  is  en- 
larged. Other  things  being  equal,  it  is  upon  a  writer's 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  his  mastery  of  the  art  of 
faithfully  communicating  it  that  his  influence  and 
the  extent  of  his  recognition  depend. 

Science,  therefore,  within  its  limitations,  which 
must  always  be  narrower  than  those  of  literature,  but 
which  have  been  infinitely  enlarged  as  compared  with 
what  they  were  in  the  eighteenth  century,  is  a  finer 
inspiration  to  the  imaginative  writer  of  our  day 
than  the  most  stirring  of  events  ever  could  have  been 
to  his  predecessors.  What  it  was  to  Tennyson  every 
reader  of  that  poet  knows.  No  other  kind  of  knowl- 
edge has  so  impressed  the  minds  of  men  with  the 
conviction  of  the  unity  of  all  life  and  of  a  universal 
kinship  which  Wordsworth  prophetically  intimated. 
Science,  within  its  limitations,  not  only  yields  real 
disclosures  of  the  physical  world,  and  thus  con- 
firms the  quest  of  literature  for  truth  in  life,  but 
has  pursued  its  discoveries  to  the  line  of  contact  of 
the  physical  with  the  psychical,  furnishing  the  im- 
agination with  luminous  suggestions  leading  beyond 
nature's  fixed  cycles  into  the  spiritual  domain.  It 
is  not  the  materialism  of  science  which  could  de- 

119 


MAGAZINE    WRITING 

grade  literature,  but  a  conventional  materialism  of 
our  own  fashioning. 

Science  is  forever  on  the  brink  of  some  new  mys- 
tery, and  none  of  our  old  fables  or  fairy  tales  can 
match  its  romances.  The  proverb  that  truth  is 
stranger  than  fiction — that  is,  than  contrived  fiction 
— has  a  fresh  meaning  not  thought  of  in  its  making. 
Imaginative  fiction  entertains  this  stranger  truth — 
the  truth  of  evil  as  well  as  of  good — following  it 
without  fear  or  disdain,  whatever  veritable  shape  it 
may  take  and  whithersoever  it  leads. 

This  new  order  of  communication  is  not  a  logical 
presentment  of  exact  or  absolute  truth.  The  illusion 
remains.  Nature  has  its  own  prismatic  refractions 
of  light,  through  the  raindrops  giving  us  the  rain- 
bow, and  through  the  humid  atmosphere  the  hues 
of  the  sunset  sky.  The  illusions  of  life  as  presented 
in  really  great  imaginative  writing  to-day  are  pro- 
duced naturally,  not  artificially. 

The  prosperity  of  writers  with  readers  of  their  own 
generation  is  no  security  for  their  hold  upon  pos- 
terity. In  present  conditions  it  would  almost  seem 
that  the  near  regard  is  won  at  the  expense  of  the 
future.  By  a  strange  paradox,  individual  immor- 
tality is  denied  to  the  writers  of  an  age  like  ours,  in 
which  the  individuality  of  each  is  so  distinctive  a 
feature.  The  old  mask  served  for  surer  remem- 
brance of  an  eminent  author  by  posterity. 


CHAPTER  XI 

POPULARITY 

IF  the  popular  audience  has  for  two  centuries  de- 
termined the  progressive  phases  of  literature  in 
England  and  in  America — ever  since  there  has 
been  such  a  thing  as  American  literature — why  is  it 
that  so  many  of  our  best  writers  seem  to  eschew 
popularity  ? 

This  question  concerns  our  immediately  present 
or  emergent  literature  far  more  than  it  would  have 
concerned  that  of  fifty  years  ago.  The  obvious,  and 
perhaps  too  easy,  answer  to  it  is  that  in  the  evolution 
of  literature  there  has  been  a  specialization  of  both 
writers  and  readers,  inevitably  dividing  them  into 
classes  with  widely  diverse  tastes  and  interests.  But 
this  specialization,  though  its  ramifications  have  rap- 
idly multiplied  during  the  last  two  generations,  as  is 
shown  by  the  almost  bewildering  variety  of  period- 
ical publications  paraded  on  any  typical  metropol- 
itan news-stand  of  to-day,  was  at  least  going  on 
in  a  clearly  manifest  course  even  much  longer  ago 
than  that  lapse  of  time  indicates. 

It  is  within  our  memory — we  might  say  almost 

121 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

within  the  limits  of  a  single  generation — that  great 
writers  have  deliberately  confined  their  appeal  to 
readers  of  advanced  ciilture.  It  is  a  matter  of  special 
note  that  Richardson's  Pamela  was  generally  read 
by  those  who  could  read  at  all,  and  by  every  class 
from  the  lady  of  quality  to  the  chambermaid.  We 
accept  the  tradition,  with  such  allowances  as  must 
be  made  on  account  of  the  high  price  of  books  and 
of  the  bourgeois  prejudice  against  fiction.  Certainly 
there  was  nothing  in  the  style  of  these  novelists  or 
in  their  portrayal  of  life  which  could  exclude  them 
from  general  acceptance,  to  which  indeed  they  better 
accommodated  themselves  than  the  superior  artists 
in  fiction  of  a  later  time  did.  Scott,  though  he  was 
not  so  thoroughly  human  or,  at  least,  did  not  treat 
life  as  so  plainly  human,  except  when  he  was  por- 
traying the  Scotch  peasantry,  erected  no  barrier 
between  himself  and  the  humblest  comprehension. 
George  Eliot,  in  her  more  homely  fiction,  and  all  the 
great  women  novelists  of  her  time  who  contented 
themselves,  as  Mrs.  Gaskell  did  in  Cranford,  with  the 
simple  and  faithful  presentment  of  human  life  and 
character,  were  popular  writers. 

When  we  come  to  consider  the  men  who  stood 
foremost  in  fiction  in  the  Victorian  era  and  in  the 
later  time,  we  find  in  them — with  the  exception  at 
least  of  Anthony  Trollope  and  Mr.  Howells — along 
with  strong  mastery,  a  certain  arbitrary  master- 
fulness which,  to  one  or  another  class  of  readers,  has 

122 


POPULARITY 

interposed  difficulty.  Those  of  us  who  witnessed 
the  advent  of  Dickens  can  recall  the  antagonism  of 
a  considerable  number  of  readers,  of  good  average 
common-sense,  to  those  novels  which  followed  his 
Pickwick  Papers,  and  which  took  the  world  of 
readers  at  large  by  storm.  People  who  took  life 
seriously  looked  askance  at  his  representations  of 
humanity,  which  seemed  as  unreal  as  those  upon  the 
stage,  and  at  the  queerness  and  extravagant  ex- 
aggeration of  every  detail.  Even  the  names  of  his 
characters  excited  aversion,  illustrating  the  trifling 
whimsicality  of  his  whole  dramatic  procedure.  The 
readers  who  most  enthusiastically  accepted  the  over- 
wrought humor  and  pathos  of  Dickens  were,  for 
opposite  reasons,  apathetic  to  Thackeray's  themes 
and  comment,  which  seemed  to  them  tiresome  as 
well  as  trifling,  while  to  the  refined  intellectual  sen- 
sibilities these  were  more  delightfully  appealing  than 
anything  in  fiction  since  Fielding,  who  had  been 
even  more  masterful,  in  his  satire,  though  with  less 
grace.  Wilkie  Collins  and  Charles  Reade — the  one 
masterful  in  his  invention,  the  other  in  his  virile 
handling — failed  of  that  intimate  sympathy  which 
the  reader  yields  only  to  what  is  simply  and  con- 
vincingly real. 

Yet  all  these  men,  with  others  whom  we  have  not 
the  space  to  mention,  had  extensive  popularity. 
Readers  differed  in  the  kind  and  degree  of  their 
esteem  of  them,  but  only  as  individuals,  not  by 
classes.     Thackeray  came  nearest  to  the  exclusion 

123 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

of  the  unpolite.  Later,  George  Meredith,  with  aris- 
tocratic hauteur,  forced  that  exclusion,  and  even, 
through  individual  peculiarities  of  style  and  method, 
made  his  fiction  insufferably  difficult  to  many  of 
the  polite.  But  he  always  had  largeness  of  theme. 
Thomas  Hardy,  the  greatest  master  of  English  fic- 
tion, presents  no  such  difficulty,  and  has  compelled 
all  classes  of  readers.  He  is  the  pre-eminent  living 
example,  showing  that  neither  the  possession  of 
genius  nor  the  exercise  of  true  art  need  impose  any 
limit  to  general  appreciation. 

If  we  turn  to  other  fields  of  literature,  w^e  find  that 
the  great  writers  of  the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century  most  earnestly  entertained  and  presented 
themes  of  vital  interest  to  the  whole  human  world. 
By  poets  like  Tennyson  and  Longfellow  and  Lowell ; 
by  philosophers  like  Mill  and  Green  and  Spencer 
and  Emerson;  by  essayists  like  Ruskin  and  Arnold 
and  John  Fiske,  genius  was  held  not  merely  as  a 
high  privilege,  but  as  a  trust. 

Is  there  just  cause  of  complaint  against  the  new 
generation  of  writers  on  the  ground  that  they  fall 
short  of  these  high  aims? 

It  certainly  cannot  be  said  that  the  majority  of 
these  new  writers  are  averse  to  popularity,  when  so 
many  of  them  seem  to  have  no  other  goal,  outrivalling 
the  political  demagogues  in  their  strife  for  the  plau- 
dits of  the  crowd,  adopting  indeed  the  same  watch- 
words.    There  is  no  lack  of  strenuous  fiction  an- 

124 


POPULARITY 

tagonizing  every  known  abuse  of  our  time — there 
never  was  more  of  it — to  say  nothing  of  many  other 
forms  of  antagonism  in  the  daily,  weekly,  monthly, 
and  quarterly  periodicals.  It  is  a  crusade,  involving 
a  large  proportion  of  current  literature. 

The  only  point  in  the  charge  which  has  force  is 
that  the  best  of  our  new  writers  seem  inclined  to 
avoid  any  close  touch  with  the  large  body  of  the 
people,  surrendering  the  field  entirely  to  their  in- 
feriors, while  they  devote  themselves  to  the  culture 
of  an  exquisite  art  and  to  the  entertainment  of  a 
polite  audience.  It  is  not  expected  of  them  that 
they  should  bid  with  others  for  popularity  or  even 
directly  espouse  special  causes,  but  only  that  they 
should  cherish  ideals  which  refine  and  uplift  all 
society,  and  should  so  embody  these  in  their  noble 
art  as  to  win  popular  sympathy.  They  need  not 
degrade  their  art,  but  their  themes  should  intimate 
that  kind  of  beauty  and  truth  which  is  remote  from 
no  human  sensibility.  Is  it  not  just  this  that  Tenny- 
son meant  to  express  in  the  conclusion  of  his  poem, 
"The  Palace  of  Art"? 

We  were  about  to  say  apologetically  for  our  new 
writers  that  they  are  of  course  also  young  writers, 
and  we  look  to  maturity  for  the  widest  and  deepest 
sympathy.  But  immediately  the  reflection  is  forced 
upon  us  that  it  was  the  earlier  work  of  most  of  their 
elders  that  was  most  inspiring  to  the  popular  mind 
and  heart.     Daniel  Dcronda  could  not  mean  to  the 

125 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

common  people  as  much  as  Adam  Bede  meant,  or 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  How  often  it  happens  that 
with  the  development  of  a  writer's  art  he  comes 
to  dwell  in  a  more  select  neighborhood,  sequestered 
from  the  common  regard!  Instances  of  this  se- 
clusion only  too  readily  come  to  mind.  But  we 
have  the  contrary  instances  of  novelists  like  Thomas 
Hardy,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  Sir  Gilbert  Parker, 
and  Margaret  Deland,  whose  latest  fiction  has 
evoked  the  largest  popular  response,  thus  showing 
that  even  great  sales  are  not  incompatible  with  in- 
trinsic excellence,  and  that  there  exists  a  really 
thoughtful  and  appreciative,  audience  much  more 
extensive  than  the  fastidiously  aesthetic  writer  or 
critic  supposes — and  more  worthy  of  a  master's  con- 
sideration, because  that  portion  of  it  which  exceeds 
the  narrow  limitations  so  arbitrarily  set  makes  the 
greatest  exaction  upon  his  creative  powers.  The 
work  is  worthier  which  meets  the  exaction. 

The  most  exquisite  art  without  largeness  of  theme 
lapses  into  dilletantism,  which  is  encouraged  by  a 
small,  idle,  boudoir  audience,  asking  only  for  light 
entertainment.  The  extreme  opposite  of  this  au- 
dience is  the  vulgar  crowd  which  also  demands  enter- 
tainment only,  through  sensational  excitement  and, 
whatever  the  theme,  through  the  crudest  art.  Be- 
tween these  extremes  lies  the  imaginative  writer's 
real  audience,  variously  constituted  according  to 
differing  tastes  and  degrees  of  culture,  but  united  in 
its  insistence  upon  substance  rather  than  upon  form, 

126 


POPULARITY 

regarding  the  theme,  indeed,  as  the  most  essential 
thing  in  art.  It  would  be  a  supremely  magical 
compulsion — far  beyond  that  of  Du  Maurier's  Trilby 
— which  would  give  to  any  book  absolute  control  of 
every  part  of  this  audience. 

The  diversification  is  not,  as  formerly  it  was,  into 
distinct  classes  of  readers,  but  is  the  result  of  a 
highly  developed  individualism.  As  the  writers, 
who  themselves  emerge  from  this  audience,  are  dif- 
ferentiated by  the  same  individualistic  development, 
their  affinities  are  determined  by  a  natural  selection ; 
but  appreciation  is  so  catholic  that  the  intensity 
of  admiration  for  a  "favorite  author"  yields  to  at 
least  the  tolerant  acceptance  of  others,  in  a  wide 
range  of  varied  distinction. 

As  a  whole,  this  large  body  of  fairly  well-educated 
readers  has  been  emancipated  from  certain  tradi- 
tions. A  writer  to-day  could  not  count  upon  an 
audience  for  a  novel  based  upon  a  protest  against 
any  particular  form  of  creed;  and  he  would  have 
still  less  chance  with  the  morbid  religious  sen- 
timentalism  which  gave  popularity  to  The  Wide 
World.  The  silly  love-romance  so  much  in  vogue 
fifty  years  ago  would  now  generally  seem  positively 
distasteful.  The  old-fashioned  didactic  novel  has 
no  longer  any  audience.  The  mock-heroic,  the 
morbid,  and  the  obvious  have  disappeared  from 
respectable  contemporary  literature.  Faith  and  ro- 
mance have  not  therefore  vanished,  nor  has  their 

127 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

everlasting  alliance  with  creative  imagination  been 
broken;  they  have  been  born  again  into  that  new 
truth  and  beauty  which  genius  itself  realizes  in  its 
own  renascence. 

Conduct,  Matthew  Arnold  said,  is  three-fourths  of 
our  existence;  as  the  ostensible  vestiture  of  human 
life,  it  is  all  of  it  that  is  visible.  Didactic  discourse 
cannot  alter  the  springs  of  human  action.  The  great 
novelist  touches  these  hidden  fountains,  not  by  pre- 
cept or  by  juggling  with  old  formulas,  but  through 
living  embodiments  which  appeal  to  sympathy 
rather  than  to  formal  judgment.  It  is  this  sym- 
pathetic quality  in  the  treatment  of  life  which  es- 
pecially distinguishes  contemporary  fiction,  exclud- 
ing the  old  satire  which  was  so  easy,  and  seemed  so 
forceful,  but  was,  after  all,  arbitrary  and  super- 
ficial. The  new  method  is  more  deeply  spiritual — 
is  it  any  the  less  truly  moral  ? 

Inevitably,  imaginative  literature,  in  its  most 
recent  development,  seems  in  some  respects  shorn  of 
its  old  strength.  The  good  and  evil,  blended  as  they 
must  be  in  any  true  portrayal  of  our  human  nature, 
have  no  such  dramatic  presentment  as  when  they 
were  arrayed  against  each  other  in  mortal  conflict. 
The  elimination  of  unadulterated  hatred  and  down- 
right malice  from  the  conventionally  cherished 
villain  of  the  play  spoils  the  effect  expected  in  the 
denouement.  Almost  entirely,  too,  the  dramatic 
incident,  as  the  turning-point  of   the  story,  leading 

128 


POPULARITY 

so  directly  and  easily  to  an  effective  adjustment  of 
conditions  which  in  the  ordinary  course  of  our  real 
life  are  apt  to  prove  hopelessly  intractable,  must  be 
surrendered,  and  with  it  that  objective  impressive- 
ness  which  the  inferior  craftsman  readily  turns  to 
his  advantage. 

Our  advanced  novelist  seems  unduly  handicapped 
at  the  start,  having  at  his  command,  apparently,  only 
an  equally  advanced  portion  of  the  vast  intelligent 
audience  which  is  now  eagerly  awaiting  the  master 
of  its  thought  and  feeling.  Really  it  is  due  to  the 
fault  of  his  choice  or  to  his  lack  of  adequate  genius 
that  mastery  is  not  his,  in  proportion  of  his  own 
greatness,  and  without  the  sacrifice  of  any  true 
principle  of  art.  This  audience  is  not  willingly  re- 
actionary. It  cannot,  or  the  great  majority  of  it 
cannot,  breathe  the  rarefied  air  of  that  exalted  re- 
gion to  which  too  many  of  our  best  WTiters  retire, 
making  much  of  "art  for  art's  sake."  Some  who 
do  not  thus  wilfully  exclude  themselves  and  who 
are  most  catholic  in  spirit  yet  hold  themselves  in 
leash,  with  excessive  reserve  suppressing  impulse 
until  it  atrophies,  while  the  people  need  the  full 
sunbiirst  of  their  genius. 

Imaginative  literature,  for  English  speaking  peo- 
ples, lacks  the  inspiration  of  stirring  outward  events 
such  as  had  poignantly  heroic  significance  to  for- 
mer generations.  The  struggle  for  civil  and  for  re- 
ligious liberty  is  no  longer  martial.  We  have  no 
drum-beats  and  witness  no  processions  of  martyrs  to 

129 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

the  stake  or  the  scaffold.  The  emancipations  of  the 
human  spirit  go  on  peacefully;  and  while  they  often 
involve  agitating  inward  conflicts,  they  are  not  out- 
wardly impressive.  With  this  retirement  from  the 
extreme  scenic  projection,  the  novelist  shifts  the 
stress  formerly  given  to  the  plot  to  a  series  of  situa- 
tions whose  dramatic  effect  is  quite  entirely  of  a 
psychical  character.  His  temptation  is  toward  a 
complete  retirement  where  he  has  recourse  to  analy- 
sis with  a  view  mainly  to  the  intellectual  satisfaction 
of  his  readers  or  to  an  exquisite  aesthetic  satisfaction 
through  the  supple  play  of  his  fancy.  But  while  he 
is  forced  to  deny  himself  so  much,  he  need  not  deny 
himself  the  whole  throbbing  world  outside;  indeed, 
the  more  he  admits  that  world,  with  comprehending 
sympathy,  the  more  effective  will  be  his  art  and  the 
wider  the  popular  response  to  it.  What  effects  may 
be  secured,  and  in  how  wonderful  variety,  may  be 
seen  in  the  fiction — the  short  stories  or  serial  novels 
— of  a  first-class  periodical.  This  kind  of  periodical 
has  reinforced  the  tendencies  of  the  new  art,  with 
all  its  renunciations  of  merely  outward  impressive 
effects,  but  it  has  also  saved  it  from  degenerating 
into  the  production  of  an  anaemic  and  disembodied 
literature. 

Neither  the  best  periodical  literature  nor  the 
writers  who  are  making  it  deliberately  evade  popu- 
larity. It  is  just  here  that  we  see  most  clearly  how 
far  the  specialization  of  literature  corresponds  to  the 

130 


POPULARITY 

specialization  of  culture  in  the  popular  audience. 
No  one  can  deny  that  an  imperative  obligation  com- 
pels certain  magazines  to  maintain  the  most  ad- 
vanced standards,  and  that  any  relaxation  in  this 
respect  involves  corruption  for  which  there  can  be 
no  compensating  advantage — certainly  none  in  the 
interests  of  literature.  Here  a  limitation  is  evident. 
But  are  we  not  apt  to  be  mistaken,  when  we  con- 
sider it  a  fixed  limitation,  when  we  attempt  to  de- 
termine the  capacity  of  the  audience,  apparently  in- 
accessible to  such  magazines,  to  appreciate  the  best. 
Let  us  to  a  magazine  otherwise  of  the  highest  quality 
add  the  attraction  of  pictorial  illustration  equally 
excellent.  The  audience  is  at  once  multiplied  three- 
fold. There  has  been  no  lowering  of  standards.  The 
increased  popularity  is  not  due  to  the  fact  that 
pictures  are  of  necessity  more  interesting  than  the 
text  can  be,  but  it  is  significant  as  showing  a  natural 
demand  for  the  visualized  embodiment,  the  definite 
objective  projection  not  usually  attained  to  in  the 
text.  Some  story- writers  reach  a  degree  of  visualiza- 
tion that  makes  pictorial  illustration  superfluous  if 
not  impertinent. 

But  there  is  possible  to  such  periodical  literature 
and  books  as  sustain  the  loftiest  standards  of  art  a 
much  greater  expansion  of  popularity  through  a 
larger  appeal.  Here  we  confront  a  positive  condi- 
tion: that  which  determines  the  technique  of  the 
literary  art,  while  it  is  indispensable,  is  negative. 
Here,  too,  the  magazine,  the  book,  and  the  audience 
10  131 


MAGAZINE   WRITING 

wait,  as  perforce  they  must,  upon  the  genius  of  our 
best  imaginative  writers. 

Some  great  masters  of  the  past  who  have  come 
under  the  harrow  of  our  advanced  criticism  had  at 
least  the  excellence  of  their  defects.  Shall  those 
new  writers  who  accept — as  indeed  they  must  and 
ought — the  dictates  of  this  criticism  simply  or 
mainly  show  the  defects  of  their  excellences? 

Why  is  it  that  the  sales  of  Dickens's  works,  in 
England  alone,  amount  in  a  single  year  to  more  than 
those  of  any  later  novelist  during  his  whole  lifetime  ? 
The  readers  of  these  novels  do  not  lack  intelligence, 
and  a  good  number  of  them  are  of  a  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced culture  to  detect  his  faults.  But  whatever 
the  higher  criticism  may  disclose  against  him,  there 
still  remains  the  fulness  of  his  robust  human  sym- 
pathy and  that  mastery  of  genius  which  holds  the 
mind  even  of  children,  as  that  of  Shakespeare's  does. 

We  do  not  want  another  Dickens.  We  are  willing 
to  turn  him  over  with  that  other  old  playwright, 
Shakespeare,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Tolstoy.  But 
we  look,  surely  not  in  vain,  for  writers  who  shall 
weave  the  very  substance  of  the  great  human  drama 
into  their  fiction,  as  all  the  great  masters  have  done, 
in  whatever  stage  of  the  art. 


PART     II 

THE   NEW    LITERATURE 


CHAPTER  I 

PAST   AND   PRESENT 

COMPARATIVE  estimates  of  different  periods 
in  the  literature  of  any  people  are  apt  to  be 
misleading,  and  never  more  so  than  when  the 
present  is  contrasted  with  the  past.  Often,  as  in 
the  case  of  Greek  literature,  the  remote  past  seems 
brighter  and  fresher  than  all  the  aftertime.  The 
Homeric  poems  seem  indeed  so  incomparable  with 
anything  in  literature  and  art  as  to  belong  to  neither. 
In  truth,  they  do  not  belong  to  either.  As  the  first 
myths  are  the  spontaneous  creations  of  a  plastic 
imagination,  so  the  early  epic  is  the  product  of  the 
imagination  reacting  upon  the  legends  of  heroic 
deeds,  and  is  thus  representative  of  the  race  type 
rather  than  belonging  to  any  particular  depart- 
ment of  its  development.  Sometimes,  as  among  the 
Finns,  there  is  no  significant  sequel  in  the  national 
growth,  and  the  marvellous  epic  stands  alone,  the 
single  manifestation  of  a  people's  genius. 

No  Greek  ever  thought  of  comparing  ^schylus 
with  Homer,  although  he  was  the  master  of  a  more 
developed  art.     It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 

135 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

Homeric  like  the  great  Hindu  epics,  as  we  know 
them,  were  the  products  of  civiHzations  far  in  ad- 
vance of  those  which  produced  the  Kalevala  or  the 
NibelungenHed,  and  that  a  long  way  behind  them 
was  the  morning,  the  creative  font  of  the  myths 
and  legends  which  enriched  them.  Homer  was  not 
wholly  unsophisticated.  But  to  the  Hellas  of  the 
fifth  century  B.C.  he  stood  at  the  gates  of  Dawn,  and 
was,  moreover,  invested  with  all  the  glamour  of  the 
Heroic  age.  The  great  Hellenic  tragedians  modest- 
ly confessed  that  their  plays  were  only  crumbs  from 
Homer's  table,  and  it  is  true  that  their  themes  were 
in  the  main  borrowed  from  him.  But  their  opera- 
tion— that  for  which  we  esteem  them  and  which 
won  the  plaudits  of  their  contemporaries — was  in  a 
field  a  world  away  from  Homer. 

Hardly  more  than  a  century  later  than  ^s- 
chylus  the  great  orators  of  Greece  flourished,  Thu- 
cydides  lifted  history  into  the  realm  of  art,  and 
Plato  laid  the  foundations  of  speculative  philosophy. 
New  conditions  incident  to  the  enlargement  and 
deepening  of  human  thought  brought  into  exercise 
new  activities,  developed  new  qualities,  and  dis- 
closed a  new  order  of  excellences.  Doubtless  many 
critics  in  this  advanced  era  regretted  the  past  glories 
of  a  former  and  mightier  generation.  Already  Eu- 
ripides, then  self -exiled  from  Athens,  wise  and  com- 
plex before  his  time,  had  at  once  worried  and  fas- 
cinated an  audience  upon  whose  sensibility  he  had 
been  over-exacting,  and  in  whose  minds  his  plays  must 

136 


PAST   AND   PRESENT 

have  suffered  by  comparison  with  the  simple  gran- 
deur of  yEschylus  and  the  perfect  art  of  Sophocles, 
though  of  this  celebrated  triad  he  was  the  greatest 
poet.  Aristophanes,  who  in  this  period  was  at  his 
best,  had  a  richer  and  freer  fancy  than  any  other 
Greek  poet,  but  in  the  critical  estimate  of  his  con- 
temporaries he  would  have  been  dwarfed  when  con- 
trasted with  Pindar.  If  we  go  a  little  further  ahead 
in  time  so  as  to  include  Aristotle,  this  age  had  more 
influence  upon  human  thought  than  any  other  in  the 
history  of  ancient  civilization. 

In  the  evolution  of  human  culture  as  in  that  of  the 
physical  universe  every  advance  involves  at  the 
same  time  a  sacrifice  of  elemental  force  and  a  gain 
in  structural  excellence.  It  is  in  the  lowest  orders 
of  organic  life  that  the  creative  quality  of  that  life 
is  most  conspicuous.  So  in  literature  the  obvious 
and  striking  instances  of  creative  power  pass,  giving 
place  to  a  higher  and  more  complex  organization  in 
which  that  power  is  veiled  more  and  more  in  the 
progressive  course  of  culture.  Also,  when  the  human 
imagination  is  most  potently  creative — that  is,  in 
the  primitive  and  most  plastic  stage  of  the  evolution 
— it  is  in  its  operation,  whether  of  myth-making  or 
of  rhythmic  expression,  the  movement  of  the  mass 
rather  than  the  manifestation  of  individual  genius. 
No  later  manifestation  can  seem  so  nearly  a  divine 
operation  as  this.  What  is  more  marvellous  than 
the  genesis  of  a  language? 

137 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

Yet  we  would  not  call  back  into  being  these  pre- 
historic wonders  or  those  of  the  Homeric  renascence 
— not  those,  indeed,  of  any  age  preceding  our  own 
— for  our  immediate  delectation;  we  are  quite  well 
satisfied  with  such  splendors  as  they  show  in  our 
backward  view,  while  enchanted  by  their  very  re- 
moteness. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  individualistic  develop- 
ment, which  has  been  mainly  Indo-European,  and 
the  first  impulse  of  which  was  Hellenic,  a  few  eminent 
writers  stand  for  the  times  in  which  they  lived — for 
their  limitations  as  well  as  for  their  advantages — 
and  because  of  the  durability  of  manuscript  and  of  the 
printed  page,  though  much  has  been  lost,  enough  of 
their  writings  remain  to  us  for  our  just  estimate  and 
appreciation.  There  is  not  one  of  them  we  would 
willingly  lose  from  the  retrospect,  though  for  many 
a  previous  age  whole  groups  of  them  have  been 
eclipsed,  sometimes  by  wilful  neglect,  but  more 
often  by  fateful  oblivion.  Whatever  Dante  may 
have  meant  to  Chaucer,  Spencer,  and  Milton,  or  to 
such  prose  writers  as  Jeremy  Taylor  and  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  he  certainly  meant  nothing  to  Dryden  and 
Addison,  to  Goethe  or  Voltaire.  During  the  dis- 
tinctively mediaeval  period  the  great  writers  of  Greece 
and  Rome  were  hidden  behind  the  barbaric  veil ;  and, 
in  turn,  the  wonders  wrought  inside  that  veil — the 
cathedrals,  the  chansons,  the  lyrics  of  troubador  and 
minnesinger,  the  Nibelungenlied,  the  poems  of  the 
Elder  Edda,  the  heroic  romances,  and  the  mystery 


PAST   AND    PRESENT 

plays — were  ignored  in  ages  illuminated  by  the 
revival  of  ancient  culture,  until  the  remarkable  re- 
action at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  drew 
aside  the  veil  and  disclosed  and  magnified  these 
wonders  as  a  new  inspiration  to  the  imagination. 
In  what  is  called  the  Augustan  age  all  the  great 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  except  Shakespeare,  and 
all  the  great  poets  who  wrote  before  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  except  Milton,  were  nearly 
obsolescent.  Even  Spenser  was  scarcely  read.  Until 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  Shakespeare 
was  but  a  nominis  umbra  on  the  Continent. 

Our  own  age,  including  the  last  two  generations, 
may  be  said  to  be  the  only  one  which  has  the  com- 
plete retrospect  within  the  range  of  its  clear  vision 
and  catholic  appreciation.  In  another  way  the 
whole  past  is  peculiarly  ours — that  is,  as  a  part  and 
not  the  mere  background  of  our  culture.  We  have 
no  present  inseparable  from  this  past.  Yet  there  is 
a  present  which,  as  something  which  is  passing  into 
the  future,  has  a  note  of  its  own  so  distinct  and  in- 
dependent as  in  one  sense  to  exclude  and  repudiate 
the  past — that  is,  denying  it  place  as  something 
standing  alongside,  as  an  explicit  factor  in  what  is 
going  on. 

Such  is  our  indebtedness  to  the  past  that  we  are 
never  inclined  to  boldly  enough  assert  this  exclu- 
siveness.  We  would  not  welcome  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queene  as  a  poem  of  to-day.     Plato's  Republic  or 

139 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Apologie  for  Poetrie  or  his  Arcadia 
would  fall  upon  dull  ears  for  any  present  appeal. 
Scott's  romances,  widely  as  they  are  read,  for  the 
romantic  interest  that  endures,  would  be  no  more 
welcome  as  present  productions  than  Milton's  epics 
or  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Religio  Medici.  All  the 
great  works  of*  the  past  which  we  delight  in  as  past 
would  as  works  of  to-day  encounter  resentment,  as 
things  born  out  of  their  time. 

Imaginative  values  are  everlasting,  but  every  age 
has  its  own  form  and  costume  which  seem  alien  to 
another,  and  are  only  tolerated  out  of  their  time  be- 
cause of  the  essential  excellence  which  they  invest. 

The  merely  outward  costume  and  custom  are  at- 
tractive to  us  when  reproduced  for  us  in  painting, 
play,  or  story,  because  of  their  novelty  and  pictu- 
resqueness,  but  we  would  not  suffer  them  in  the  fa- 
miliar intercourse  of  every-day  life.  Even  the  grace- 
ful minuet  of  the  eighteenth  century  does  not  win 
its  way  with  us  except  on  the  stage  or  as  a  con- 
trived spectacle.  For  sacred  uses,  where  tradition 
dominates,  older  architectural  styles  are  maintained 
or  revived,  but  for  the  ever-changing  homely  uses 
Gothic  and  Queen  Anne  and  Georgian  houses  have 
the  remoteness  of  a  spectacle,  save  as  they  have  en- 
dured in  their  own  settings  and  their  old  associations, 
or  in  their  adoption  have  been  transformed  by  the 
spirit  of  our  time. 

But  the  style  of  a  writer  is  something  nearer  to  his 
individual  spirit  and  to  the  spirit  of  his  time  than 

140 


PAST   AND   PRESENT 

any  outward  form.  It  cannot  pass  from  age  to  age 
(an  age  in  this  connection,  of  course,  not  being  lim- 
ited to  a  generation)  and  still  seem  native  to  the 
time.  Whatever  its  heritage  of  precious  possessions, 
every  age  has  its  own  work  to  do,  creatively.  No 
new  time  can  give  us  another  Dante  or  Shakespeare, 
or  even  another  Scott. 

If  in  some  ways  we  of  to-day  seem  less  than  those 
who  have  preceded  us,  in  many  ways  we  are  more. 
If  we  do  not  loom  up  in  so  singular  and  striking  emi- 
nences, we  strike  deeper  and  have  a  broader  vision. 
Culture  with  us  seems  to  be  developed  largely  on  the 
side  of  our  sensibility.  We  are  quickly  receptive  of 
those  impressions  which  are  direct  and  vital,  and 
have  tempted  writers  to  meet  us  on  this  ground — to 
break  up  old  forms,  to  give  up  old  affectations  and 
mannerisms,  and,  while  keeping  and  even  multiply- 
ing the  veils  of  art  and  the  illusions  of  romance, 
to  dispense  with  masquerade.  We  invite  a  more 
spontaneous  and  less  ornate  speech  and  a  less  sen- 
tentious criticism.  Our  most  esteemed  writers  have 
more  real  simplicity  than  Addison,  whose  elegances, 
natural  for  his  time,  would  repel  us  as  artificial. 

Mr.  Alfred  Austin  thinks  the  cultivated  English 
audience  of  to-day  less  intellectual  than  that  of 
Pope's  time;  but  we  doubt  if  at  any  time,  in  Eng- 
land or  America,  the  intellectual  sensibility  of  culti- 
vated people  has  ever  been  as  profound,  sane,  and 
catholic  as  it  is  in  this  generation.     Fortunately  we 

141 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

do  not  know  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  by  heart,  or  much 
give  our  hearts  to  it,  anyway.  Did  any  English  poet 
ever  have  a  wider  or  heartier  appreciation  than 
Tennyson?  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  growing 
popularity  in  England  of  Matthew  Arnold's  poetry? 
Is  there,  as  the  Poet  Laureate  asserts,  "a  growing 
distaste  for  the  higher  forms  of  poetry"  ?  We  have 
two  kinds  of  intellectual  satisfactions,  and  each  is 
quite  distinct  from  the  other.  That  satisfaction 
which  we  derive  from  the  masterpieces  of  the  past 
(including  even  Pope's  "  Essay")  is  so  complete  that 
we  do  not  hunger  for  their  repetition  in  the  present. 
We  are  just  as  eager  for  the  new  wine,  though  we  do 
not  want  it  in  the  old  bottles.  As  to  poetry,  our 
cellars  are  so  full  of  the  old  wine,  pressed  from  every 
vintage  under  heaven  and  of  all  time,  that  we  do 
not  make  so  strong  a  demand  upon  our  writers  for 
poetry  as  for  good  prose,  the  quintessential  virtues 
of  which  are  a  modern  discovery.  We  think  that 
the  extensive  appreciation  of  new  novelists  like  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward  and  Maurice  Hewlett  is  a  very  satis- 
factory test  of  the  intellectuality  of  our  period. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHAT   IS    REALITY? 

IN  our  day  we  note  a  tendency  which  has  become 
a  movement  in  full  course.  We  read  a  novel  by 
Hewlett  or  Conrad  or  Hichens,  or  such  short  sto- 
ries as  Muriel  Campbell  Dyar  and  Georg  Schock 
are  writing,  and  we  say  that  these  belong  especially 
to  and  illustrate  this  growing  tendency.  We  ob- 
serve a  similar  movement  in  all  forms  of  imagina- 
tive literature — a  movement  toward  reality  in  our 
knowledge  and  portrayal  of  life. 

Everything  in  the  world  and  in  our  life  is  coming 
to  be  interesting  to  us  only  as  seen  plain.  We  cher- 
ish real  knowledge  rather  than  notions,  escaping,  as 
far  as  we  may,  the  tyranny  of  our  intellectual  con- 
cepts and  fancies  and  the  entanglements  and  pitfalls 
into  which  our  sophistication  betrays  us.  Science, 
in  its  quest  of  reality,  has  registered  the  general 
progress  toward  emancipation.  Philosophy  is  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  science. 

In  reading  Professor  William  James's  book  on 
Pragmatism  we  seem  to  be  led  along  very  much  the 

143 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

same  course  which  we  suppose  Mr.  Ho  wells  might 
take  if  he  were  to  write  a  book  on  Realism  in  Litera- 
ture. This  does  not  introduce  a  new  method  into 
philosophy,  but  it  is  the  first  elaborate  exposition 
and  justification  of  an  attitude  toward  truth,  in  the 
consideration  of  philosophic  problems,  which  has 
hitherto  been  somewhat  apologetically  adopted. 

In  science  it  was  long  ago  inevitable  that  the  close 
investigation  of  phenomena  should  exclude  all  specu- 
lative pretensions.  Such  assumptions  as  were  from 
time  to  time  made  concerning  unknown  substance 
back  of  known  phenomena — such  as  the  postulation 
of  the  atom  and  of  the  ether— were  held  not  as 
certitudes,  but  merely  as  working  hypotheses  which 
would  be  given  up  for  others  after  they  should  have 
served  their  turn.  There  was  a  time  when  mere 
classification  gave  satisfaction,  as  in  botany  and 
physiology  before  biology  became  a  study  of  the 
cell.  To  name  a  thing  and  fix  its  place  in  a  rational 
order  was  sufficient.  Now  such  knowledge  is  ac- 
counted superficial,  though  its  attainment  involves 
careful  and  accurate  observation;  we  are  no  longer 
satisfied  with  an  orderly  description  of  the  world 
without  us  or  within  us ;  we  desire  to  apprehend  the 
real  procedure  of  a  genetic  evolution,  and,  instead  of 
leaping  forward  to  a  generalization  which  will  enable 
us  to  label  and  shelve,  and  so  summarily  dismiss,  the 
subject  of  our  study,  we  linger  with  particulars  and 
seek  beginnings  rather  than  conclusions. 

Philosophy  has  naturally  more  tolerance  of  loose 

144 


WHAT   IS    REALITY? 

vesture,  priding  herself  on  generalities.  But  science 
has  forced  her  hand.  Mr.  James  delights  in  bring- 
ing her  down  from  her  aerial  heights  to  the  ground ; 
and  the  ground  itself  is  exalted,  just  as  our  earth  was 
when  she  was  admitted  to  the  celestial  sisterhood 
without  favor  or  prejudice.  The  abstract  ideal  to 
which  we  fly,  escaping  reality,  ceases  to  have  those 
virtues  which  we  hoped  to  find  in  its  tenuous  at- 
mosphere, and  which,  after  all,  are  sensibly  appar- 
ent to  us  only  as  we  dwell  in  the  real. 

Mr.  James  is  himself  too  much  of  an  artist — as  in- 
deed he  shows  himself  to  be  in  the  grace  and  charm 
of  his  literary  expression — not  to  find  the  concrete  in 
its  "local  habitation"  more  interesting  than  any 
notional  entity.  The  universe  may  be  One,  as  in- 
deed is  implied  in  the  name  we  give  it — but  it  is 
attractive  to  us  chiefly  because  it  is  also  Many, 
having  begun  to  be  charming  with  its  passing  from 
the  homogeneous  to  the  heterogeneous.  It  is  signifi- 
cant that  the  aesthetic  Indo-European  at  first  imag- 
inatively preferred  polytheism,  or  favored  a  dualistic 
control  of  the  universe  by  good  and  evil  powers  en- 
gaged in  perpetual  conflict.  We  are  not  oiirselves 
seriously  disturbed  when  we  discover  that  heat  may 
overcome  gravitation,  to  which  we  impute  univer- 
sality, and  do  not  need  the  consoling  assurance — 
if  it  is  consoling — that,  at  absolute  zero,  gravitation 
would  probably  be  the  only  force  in  evidence;  since 
the  reduction  of  all  things  to  a  point  below  any 
temperature  whatever,  while  it  would  convincingly 

MS 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

illustrate  monism  by  a  general  and  disastrous  uni- 
vertence,  would  also  involve  the  extinction  of  life, 
and  thus  of  all  the  values  we  naturally  cherish. 

We  agree  with  Mr.  James  that  we  prefer  things  as 
they  are,  with  such  hopes  as  progressive  pragmatism 
will  permit  us  to  entertain  of  general  issues.  If  there 
is  any  far-off  "  divine  event  toward  which  the  whole 
creation  moves,"  we  certainly  cannot  wish  it  to  meet 
the  rational  expectations  of  what  the  world  ought  to 
be  or  of  what  from  the  beginning  it  ought  to  have 
been — a  world  of  absolute  completeness,  in  which 
nothing  should  be  left  to  desire  or  to  attain. 

All  this  is  simply  saying  that  we  cheerfully  accept 
reality  in  whatever  way  it  concerns  us — in  our  life, 
our  philosophy,  our  science,  and  our  literature. 

Passing  directly  to  literature,  let  us  consider  what 
limitations  the  exclusion  of  unreal  matter  has  im- 
posed upon  the  imaginative  writer  as  to  the  themes 
at  his  command  in  his  appeal  to  an  audience  which 
demands  only  the  real.  There  still  remains  a  vast  re- 
actionary audience  composed  of  people  who  have  not 
themselves,  in  the  evolution  of  character,  become 
simply  plain  men  and  women,  and  who  cherish  in 
their  vague  fancies  the  insignia  of  an  order  irrecov- 
erably past.  Marble  halls  still  haunt  their  dreams, 
inhabited  by  crowned  princes  and  helmeted  knights 
and  other  very  imposing  personages;  and  all  this 
masquerade  is  the  more  hungrily  sought  after  by 
those  from  whose  ordinary  ways  of  life  it  is  most 

146 


WHAT   IS   REALITY? 

remote  and  by  starvelings  whose  fantastic  appetites 
long  for  better  bread  than  can  be  made  of  wheat. 
Writers  of  romances  have  never  been  lacking  to 
respond  to  the  fancied  needs  of  this  class  of  readers, 
not  only  giving  them  the  coveted  foreign  satisfaction , 
but  also  meeting  nearer  and  more  intimate  cravings 
for  abnormal  mental  and  emotional  nutrition. 

Doubtless,  too,  we  are  all  reactionary,  of  set  pur- 
pose, now  and  then,  taking  a  kind  of  holiday  in 
spontaneous  revels  and  masquerades,  or  allowing 
ourselves  to  be  carried  off  our  feet  by  some  antique 
obsession,  lest  we  take  ourselves  too  seriously  in  our 
insistence  upon  plain  clothes.  It  is  a  healthy  re- 
action, because  we  know  what  we  are  about.  More- 
over, we  may  be  sincerely  retrospective,  and  the 
outworn  antique  may  hold  for  us  a  resource  beyond 
that  of  mere  amusement  when  we  reflect  that  what 
seems  so  unreal  to  us  was  in  its  own  time  intensely 
and  often  pathetically  real.  Even  the  pompous  and 
picturesque  past  thus  remains  to  us  our  legitimate 
though  not  negotiable  possession. 

Realism  holds  us  mainly  to  what  is  contempora- 
neous, because  present  values  are  reckoned  in  cur- 
rent coin ;  but  we  are  not  denied  historical  romance, 
provided  it  be  true  history  and  genuine  romance. 

Nor  are  we  absolutely  forbidden  the  melodramatic, 
even  off  the  stage,  certainly  not  that  species  of  it 
which  is  so  much  an  element  in  our  lives  that  in  as- 
suming its  obsolescence  we  elude  reality.  Passion 
is  profoundly  real  for  all  of  us,  and  the  exaltation 
"  147 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

which  culture  gives  it,  relieving  its  elemental  vio- 
lence, while  happily  unable  to  reduce  its  expression 
to  logical  terms,  makes  it  a  more  interesting  as  well 
as  a  more  respectable  factor  in  literature  than  it  was 
in  an  older  time;  and  melodrama,  in  so  far  as  it 
inherits  the  virtues  of  this  rehabilitation,  maintains 
its  appeal.  Impassioned  prose,  also,  when  free  from 
rhetorical  artifice,  may  reflect  deep  reality,  though 
in  our  day  it  is  likely  to  have  a  less  elaborate  ex- 
pression than  in  the  pages  of  De  Quincey.  Lofty 
themes,  therefore,  concerning  matters  of  deep  and 
everlasting  interest  to  every  human  soul,  have  not 
lost  their  place  in  literature,  though  held  more  closely 
within  the  limits  of  a  secure  but  mobile  anchorage 
— secure  because  of  its  mobility — and  always  repu- 
diating the  Preacher's  assurance  that  any  position 
taken  is  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,  where- 
as it  should  be  but  the  beginning. 

The  chief  value  of  realism  is  that,  while  it  seems 
to  bring  us  down  to  earth,  it  at  the  same  time,  as  we 
have  said,  exalts  the  earth,  so  that  the  common  and 
homely  things  have  a  new  disclosure  of  old  but  neg- 
lected values.  We  accept  our  dwelling-place  and 
find  it  glorified,  so  that  we  no  longer  in  ungrateful 
contempt  speak  of  home  as  exile.  Other-worldliness 
waits  its  other- world.  Our  existence  here  is  doubt- 
less, if  not  exile,  at  least  a  sequestration,  but  we  make 
the  most  of  our  enclosure — a  garden  of  it,  if  we  will. 
Nothing  is  in  our  intellect  before  it  is  in  our  senses, 

148 


WHAT   IS   REALITY? 

yet  we  find  no  good  reason  for  disparaging  our  sen- 
sations because  of  this  limitation.  Embodiment  is 
the  very  sacrament  which  the  spirit  has  sought  with 
all  its  desire,  itself  shaping  that  organism  which  is  at 
once  its  confinement  and  its  expansion. 

Reality,  then,  is  not  distinguished  from  appear- 
ances, which  are  indeed  realization.  The  soul  in  us 
is,  through  sensible  phenomena,  brought  into  closer 
correspondence  with  the  souls  in  things,  which  are 
akin  to  our  own,  than  through  our  intellections. 

Realism  in  imaginative  literature  means  closer 
relations  with  nature  in  all  the  phases  she  presents  to 
us,  and  the  writer  abides  with  them  and  makes  the 
most  of  them  in  all  their  chromatic  variety,  becom- 
ing unliterary  in  his  immediate  regard  of  them  for 
their  own  sakes.  But,  whether  poet  or  essayist  or 
novelist,  he  makes  human  action  and  passion  the 
dominant  interest  in  this  environment.  Writers 
have  always  done  this,  but  not  always  in  this 
real  way  as  to  both  natural  and  human  phenom- 
ena. 

We  are  aware  that  what  we  are  insisting  upon  must 
seem  like  a  truism  to  many  of  our  readers,  who  ask 
if  to  portray  life  truly  has  not  been  the  aim  of  all 
novelists.  Did  not  Fielding  speak  of  human  nature 
with  authority  as  if  he  were  its  infallible  hierophant  ? 
And  Samuel  Warren,  the  author  of  Ten  Thousand 
a  Year — did  he  not  regard  himself  as  a  successful 
rival  of  Dickens  because  of  the  reality  of  his  fiction  ? 
Was  not  Defoe  the  father  of  realism,  as  he  was,  in  a 

149 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

way,  of  English  fiction  itself  ?  Yet  there  is  not  one 
of  our  critical  readers  who  could  not  convict  every 
man  who  wrote  novels  before  Thomas  Hardy  of  un- 
reality in  the  kind  of  thing  which  he  attempted  to 
represent  as  human  life,  if  not  in  his  manner  of 
doing  it.  Many  of  the  women  who  have  written 
fiction  have  come  far  nearer  to  realism,  as  we  un- 
derstand it,  than  the  men;  because  they  have  been 
content  to  present  common  things  and  common  ex- 
periences in  a  plain  and  direct  appeal. 

Those  who  regard  fiction  as  mainly  a  comment  on 
life  naturally  remind  us  that  human  nature  is  es- 
sentially the  same  in  all  ages,  and  that  the  views  of 
life  entertained  by  the  novelists  of  to-day  must  be 
very  much  the  same  as  those  held  by  their  prede- 
cessors. But  it  is  just  these  "  views  "  which  realistic 
fiction  must  more  and  more  repudiate.  Every  ob- 
servant man's  mind  reacts  upon  what  he  sees  in  the 
world  about  him  and  what  he  finds  in  books,  and 
inevitably  his  generalizations  crystallize  into  views. 
That  is  what  theory  primarily  means — a  view.  And 
it  is  true  that  these  views  of  life  do  not  suffer  much 
change  from  one  generation  to  another,  for  the  pur- 
poses of  didactic  comment.  But  reality,  as  we  have 
intimated,  rests  rather  in  the  particular  than  in  the 
general,  in  the  individual  rather  than  in  the  type,  in 
phenomena  themselves  rather  than  in  any  laws  of 
conduct  we  may  deduce  from  them.  George  Eliot's 
Mrs.  Poyser  is  more  spontaneous,  less  easily  accoimt- 

150  * 


WHAT   IS   REALITY? 

ed  for   logically,  than  her  Daniel  Deronda,  and  is 
more  genuinely  interesting  because  more  real. 

Our  sensibility  as  a  factor  in  art  and  literature  is 
susceptible  of  constant  development  from  age  to 
age.  Color  and  tone  to  the  eye  and  ear  of  the 
modern  painter  and  musician  are  divided  into  dis- 
tinct shades  which  were  not  apparent  to  their  primi- 
tive forebears.  Formal  and  applied  ethics  as  stated 
in  general  terms  were  the  same  in  the  oldest  Egyptian 
dynasties  as  in  our  own  day.  Our  advance  is  in 
the  field  of  our  perceptions,  in  our  real  knowledge 
through  physical  and  psychical  sensibility  simul- 
taneously developed.  Richard  Jefferies  revelled  in 
a  world  of  reality  undreamed  of  by  Pliny  or  Hum- 
boldt. Real,  as  distinguished  from  formal,  ethics 
has  had  a  corresponding  development  into  the  com- 
plex and  infinitely  varied  phenomena  of  what  we 
call  our  manners — our  psychical  physiognomy,  the 
most  subtle  and  elusive  as  well  as  the  most  spon- 
taneous manifestation  of  our  life  which  the  creative 
artist  has  to  interpret.  It  is  a  vital  development  not 
definable  in  any  formulary.  Considering  this  ever- 
widening  field  of  reality,  we  begin  to  see  what 
realism  in  imaginative  literature  means  and  how  in- 
adequate must  be  any  definition  of  it  through  what 
it  excludes  or  through  some  partial  though  very 
important  positive  characterization  of  it — one  so  im- 
portant, for  example,  as  its  exaltation  of  the  com- 
monplace.    One  of  the  most  misleading  distinctions 

151 


THE  NEW  LITERATURE 

of  it  is  that  which  opposes  it  to  idealism.  It  is  in 
reality  only  that  beauty  and  all  that  is  ideally  ex- 
cellent are  embodied  forth  or  brought  home  and 
made  familiar. 

Accurate  observation  of  nature  is  necessary  to 
scientific  research  and  statement,  but  in  imaginative 
writing  it  is  not  the  description  of  the  external  world 
that  is  essential,  but  the  feeling  of  it  as  a  familiar 
complement  of  our  humanity;  yet  the  feeling  must 
be  as  true  as  if  it  were  born  of  real  acquaintance.  In 
like  manner  the  human  sympathy  of  the  writer  rather 
than  his  critical  judgment  will  lead  him  into  the  true 
vision  of  human  life.  He  does  not  make  a  photo- 
graphic transcript  of  actualities  which  he  has  ob- 
served. His  portrayal  of  human  nature  is  creative; 
his  characters  are  born,  not  fashioned  or  invented, 
else  they  and  what  they  do  and  feel  would  seem 
unreal. 

Realism  enlarges  instead  of  narrowing  the  writer's 
field  of  creative  work.  Life  is  the  theme — not  what 
we  think  about  it,  but  what  it  discloses  to  our  de- 
veloped sensibility.  The  theme  divides  itself  as  the 
living  itself  is  divided  to  us  and  among  us,  and  not, 
as  in  the  old  didactic  formularies,  into  "firstlies" 
and  "secondlies,"  till  we  reach  the  "finallies."  This 
real  distribution  develops  surprises  as  novel  as  those 
fairy  tales  of  recent  science  which  are  incidental  to 
the  disclosures  of  the  universal  life  in  its  unfolding, 

152 


WHAT    IS   REALITY? 

which  is  a  like  dividing  of  itself  to  our  comprehension. 
Following  these  lines,  literature  shows  its  unlimited 
resources  for  an  entertainment  far  more  interesting, 
if  not  so  stately  or  imposing,  than  it  could  furnish 
under  its  old  masks. 

The  enlargement  of  literature,  like  its  enrichment, 
must  be  through  the  truth,  which  discloses  the  real 
values  of  our  earthly  existence  and  experience  in 
their  living  terms,  and  which  gives  to  common 
things  and  associations  their  full  meaning,  investing 
them  with  their  natural  pathos  and  with  the  romance 
formerly  associated  mainly  with  what  was  alien  and 
remote.  A  new  and  higher  kind  of  curiosity  has 
been  awakened  and  developed  which  the  stories  of 
old  travellers  like  Marco  Polo  could  not  satisfy — 
a  curiosity  concerning  intimate  things.  Our  per- 
spective is  changed,  diminishing  the  enchantments 
due  to  distance,  as  the  microscope  has  outmatched 
the  telescope  in  the  revelation  of  the  wonderful. 

Any  solicitude,  therefore,  w^hich  we  may  feel  as  to 
the  immediate  future  of  literature  is  not  whether 
writers  for  the  new  generation  will  do  the  things 
which  once  seemed  great,  but  whether  they  will  still 
further  widen  the  range  of  the  human  imagination  in 
the  field  of  reality.  It  is  in  that  way  that  their 
larger  appeal  must  be  won. 


CHAPTER  III 

CREATIVE   VALUES   IN   LIFE   AND   LITERATURE 

IT  is  the  mild  season  in  literature.  A  century  ago 
the  dynastic  and  revolutionary  conflicts  which 
agitated  Europe  were  reflected  in  the  imaginative 
writing  of  the  time,  especially  in  poetry.  It  is  in- 
teresting to  note  how  much  of  the  verse  of  so  con- 
templative a  poet  as  Wordsworth  was  affected  or 
directly  called  forth  by  the  Napoleonic  Wars,  and 
previously  by  the  French  Revolution.  Later  in 
France,  Germany,  and  Italy,  and  still  later  in  Russia, 
popular  revolutions  created  or  revivified  national 
literatures. 

By  way  of  contrast  it  is  interesting  also  to  note 
that  English  fiction  during  the  whole  century  was 
unperturbed,  yielding  scarcely  an  echo  to  these  ex- 
citing Continental  tumults.  In  their  peaceful  insu- 
lation the  novelists,  from  Jane  Austen  to  Thomas 
Hardy,  were  oblivious  to  all  outward  disturbances. 
England  had,  for  her  island  domain  at  least,  achieved 
the  peace  and  freedom  which  are  essential  to  the 
quiet  expansion  of  culture. 

After  the  Revolution  of   1688  England  steadily 


CREATIVE   VALUES   IN   LIFE  AND   LITERATURE 

advanced  in  the  development  of  her  empire  abroad 
and,  at  the  same  time,  of  free  institutions  at  home; 
and  to  both  is  due  the  superiority  of  English  to 
Continental  fiction.  The  sense  of  national  greatness 
and  that  of  personal  liberty  and  security  inspired 
and  determined  the  aim  and  character  of  this  fiction. 
These  conditions  provided  a  constantly  increasing 
audience  for  literature  in  books  and  periodicals. 

Thus  we  account  for  the  quiet  atmosphere  of 
English  fiction  since  Fielding — almost  provincially 
quiet  if  we  exclude  historical  romances.  It  has  been 
left  to  historians  and  poets  to  celebrate  martial 
triumphs — Blenheim,  Waterloo,  Balaklava,  and  the 
rest,  and  even  lately  Watson  and  Kipling  have 
kindled  sparks  from  Bellona's  anvil.  This  kind  of 
heroism,  in  the  reproduction  of  which  the  measure 
of  verse  has  always  so  aptly  responded  to  that  of  the 
march,  has  never  strongly  moved  the  English  novelist, 
not  simply  because  he  was  writing  prose,  but  be- 
cause he  preferred  to  portray  struggles,  excitements, 
and  enthusiasms  of  another  character — such  as  grew 
out  of  the  lives  about  him,  open  to  his  observation 
and  appealing  to  his  sympathy  and  to  his  sense  of 
humor.  Thomas  Hardy,  in  his  recent  elaborate  epic 
drama,  shows  this  lingering  preference,  unable  to 
cast  aside  the  habit  which  he  had  acquired  as  a 
novelist.  The  main  current  of  English  fiction  has 
been  domestic  and  social,  bound  up  with  the  lives  of 
the  people  and  little  concerned  with  martial  pomp 
and  circumstance. 

15$ 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

The  mildness  of  our  season  in  literature  seems, 
then,  not  so  new  a  thing,  after  all.  We  cannot 
fairly  say  that  it  is  an  autumnal  mildness,  a  sign  of 
decadence,  since  it  was  with  us  in  the  spring  and 
summer;  indeed,  for  all  we  know,  it  is  still  the  spring- 
time, or  the  opening  summer,  of  a  bountiful  era. 
Any  forebodings  we  may  indulge  must  have  their 
ground  in  the  assumption  that  civilization  itself  is 
a  movement  whose  ultimate  issue  is  decay. 

It  is  commonly  held  that  at  least  every  particular 
cycle  of  the  movement  must  have  this  mortal  issue, 
just  as  surely  in  the  career  of  a  race  as  in  that  of  an 
individual.  The  decline  of  every  ancient  civilization 
is  adduced  as  a  convincing  demonstration  of  this 
position.  But  is  it  convincing?  Have  we  not  al- 
ready reached  a  point  where,  in  this  respect,  history 
can  no  longer  be  said  to  repeat  itself  ? 

It  is  not  so  very  long  since  astronomers  regarded 
it  as  a  foregone  conclusion  that  the  universe  was, 
as  a  whole,  doomed  to  dissolution  at  the  end  of 
some  "grand  cycle."  But  new  systems  are  forever 
emerging  in  the  depths  of  space,  and  our  conviction 
of  a  final  and  total  cataclysm  is  shaken.  So  it  is 
possible  that  our  modern  civilization  may  last  as 
long  as  this  planet  is  habitable.  The  peoples  of  the 
earth  no  longer  confront  any  inevitable  bankruptcy 
of  material  resources;  on  the  contrary,  as  Professor 
Patten  has  recently  shown,  they  are  assured  a  con- 
stantly increasing  surplus,  whereas  up  to  a  com- 
paratively recent  date  they  faced  a  deficit.     Older 

156 


CREATIVE  VALUES   IN  LIFE  AND   LITERATURE 

nations  were,  moreover,  embroiled  in  perpetual  wars, 
the  most  efficient  of  them  all  being  finally  supplanted 
by  more  virile  Northern  races. 

The  bright  manifesto  of  progress,  at  the  beginning 
of  the  twentieth  century,  promises  the  abolition  of 
poverty  and  the  early  advent  of  peace  among  those 
nations  which  no  longer  suffer  from  barbaric  condi- 
tions such  as  impede  the  development  of  Russia. 
There  is  now  no  reasonable  ground  for  the  final 
decadence  of  any  race  save  through  its  spiritual  de- 
generation. This  is  the  vital  point.  A  people  may 
enjoy  the  greatest  possible  physical  comfort  and 
sanity,  with  civil  liberty,  perfect  administrative 
efficiency,  irreproachable  morality,  and  even  the 
most  strenuous  altruism,  and  it  may  be  as  sane 
mentally  as  we  are  supposing  it  to  be  physically; 
but,  while  it  would  be  safe  from  corruption,  if  all  this 
efficiency  has  been  gained  at  the  expense  of  creative 
power,  such  a  people  has  paid  too  high  a  price  for  the 
benefits  of  progress.  Lacking  spiritual  humor,  in- 
sight, and  sympathy,  it  could  have  no  essential 
greatness  in  its  life  or  in  its  literature. 

If  our  modern  civilization  cannot  meet  this  chal- 
lenge, then  Christendom  is  a  meaningless  term. 

We  have  to  consider  not  simply  or  mainly  the 
achievements  of  progress,  but  the  more  essential 
values  disclosed  in  the  course  of  human  evolution. 

We  cannot  doubt  the  efficiency  of  modem  insti- 
tutions, and  it  is  hardly  possible  for  us  to  conceive 

157 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

the  greater  perfectibility  yet  to  be  attained,  along 
the  lines  already  developed,  by  the  co-operation  of 
civilized  nations.  But  questions  arise  quite  inde- 
pendent of  such  attainments,  and  not  concerning 
goals  to  be  reached  but  rather  sources,  in  the  native 
and  original  powers  of  the  human  spirit.  The 
humanities  are  not  achievements.  The  hopeful 
signs  in  plain  evidence  on  a  superficial  view — the 
greater  freedom  and  security  of  the  individual,  the 
better  sanitation,  the  better  educational  outlook, 
the  ameliorated  conditions  of  workers,  old  and 
yoimg,  the  advance  in  private  and  public  morality, 
the  growth  of  the  sentiment  in  favor  of  military  and 
naval  disarmament — all  these  are  in  themselves 
only  improvements,  our  manifest  gains  in  bargains 
we  have  been  all  along  making  with  destiny.  They 
do  not  relieve  our  solicitude  as  to  values  far  tran- 
scending such  betterments.  Almost  generally  the 
assumption  prevails  that  genius,  originality  of  charac- 
ter, the  picturesqueness  of  life,  and  the  illusions  of 
faith  have  been  broken  up,  if  not  destroyed,  by  the 
corrosive  analyses  of  science,  by  an  aggressive  and 
all-absorbing  commercial  spirit,  and  by  the  weight 
and  complexity  of  organization  in  every  department 
of  activity. 

Let  us  clearly  distinguish  between  the  values 
gained  through  our  experience  and  those  which 
spring  from  creative  evolution — that  is,  from  native 
powers,  the  most  distinctive  of  which  is  the  imagina- 
tion, "the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine."     We  can- 

158 


CREATIVE  VALUES  IN   LIFE  AND   LITERATURE 

J 

not  develop  imaginative  power  or  imaginative  sen- 
sibility through  a  progressive  experience  as,  through 
that  experience,  we  develop  wisdom  in  the  adapta- 
tion of  means  to  ends,  thus  acquiring  skill  and 
efficiency.  This  native  power  has  not  progress,  but 
evolution — such  as  goes  on  in  the  natural  world, 
with  transmutation  of  the  forms  disclosed  at  suc- 
cessive stages  of  the  genetic  procedure.  Human 
progress,  as  indicated  in  its  results,  is  empirical,  the 
sum  of  effort  and  experimentation,  following  a 
logical  process  of  thought.  The  evolution  of  genius, 
in  life,  literature,  and  art,  discloses  effects  that  are 
spontaneous,  inevitable,  unpremeditated,  and  there- 
fore not  precalculable — births,  not  fashioned  prod- 
ucts. Such  effects  are  the  genesis  of  language,  the 
creation  of  myth  and  of  mythological  personages, 
singing,  dancing,  the  birth  of  the  epic,  of  the  drama, 
of  architecture,  sculpture,  and  painting,  and  of  the 
modern  art  of  fiction. 

This  is  but  a  partial  summary.  Passing  from  art 
to  life  itself,  the  genetic  procedure  of  the  evolution  is 
more  profoundly  interesting  and  significant,  and 
its  effects,  as  distinguished  from  those  achieved  in 
the  course  of  human  progress,  far  more  wonderful, 
though  more  evanescent.  In  the  earliest  period, 
before  the  exploitation  of  the  world  by  human  in- 
genuity and  artifice,  genius  had  the  whole  field  to 
itself;  art  and  nature  were  inseparably  blended  in 
a  life  not  yet  sharply  detached  from  the  physical 

159 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

world.  The  flowers  of  that  human  garden  passed 
away  with  their  blooming,  and  we  can  only  con- 
jecture, from  later  evidences,  how  soon  such  Eden 
as  there  may  have  been  was  despoiled  by  the  in- 
stitutional tyrannies  of  kingcraft  and  priestcraft 
which  presided  over  what  was  then  styled  progress; 
we  only  dimly  glimpse  those  ancient  festivals — their 
lights  and  shadows — and  can  only  imagine  the  purple 
hues  of  the  glowing  picture,  the  plaintive  notes  of 
the  choral  song.  But  then,  as  during  the  whole  long 
period  of  the  old  aristocratic  regime,  there  was  the 
festival,  with  its  choral  and  picturesque  accom- 
paniments; there  was,  within  poignant  limitations, 
the  spontaneous  up-springing  of  the  joys  of  life, 
domestic  and  social  and  under  gracious  skies — and 
even  the  slave  had  the  freedom  of  his  dreams,  if  he 
might  only  dream  of  Elysian  fields  beyond.  These 
native  delights  are  indefinable,  but  they  are  fruits  of 
the  creative  life,  as  are  human  romance,  heroism, 
and  enthusiasm.  In  the  ancient  w^orld  we  see  them 
at  their  best  in  Hellas,  where  the  passing  aesthetic 
excellence  in  life  became  fixed  in  enduring  shapes  of 
beauty.  The  Hellenic  type  of  man  was  itself  an 
emergence  in  this  creative  evolution:  it  was  unat- 
tainable as  a  result  of  progress.  The  shaping  genius 
is  manifest  in  the  race  before  it  can  emerge  in  in- 
dividual or  collective  life  or  in  the  work  of  the  artist. 
As  we  contemplate  this  side  of  human  life,  finding 
it  difficult  to  definitely  express  the  traits  of  it  which 
are  so  indefinable,  inevitably  and  helpfully  the  words 

1 60 


CREATIVE  VALUES   IN    LIFE  AND   LITERATURE 

of  the  Master  present  themselves  to  our  minds,  free 
from  dogmatic  translation  and  ecclesiastic  obscura- 
tion. We  behold,  in  spiritual  intuition,  the  things 
revealed  to  babes  and  hidden  from  worldly  wisdom 
and  phariseeism — the  humors,  insouciances,  and  un- 
moralities,  the  blended  dove-and-serpent  type  of  life. 

In  this  field,  too,  are  the  passions,  good  or  evil, 
as  we  call  them,  just  as  we  distinguish  between  what 
is  benevolent  and  what  is  malsaine  in  the  physical 
world.  They  are  the  chief  motor-powers  in  the 
earthly  expression  of  the  creative  life,  and  their  con- 
flict is  its  drama. 

But  what  most  profoundly  impresses  us  is  the 
mystery  of  personality  itself  —  the  being  of  men, 
women,  and  children  as  distinct  from  life's  busyness 
— the  something  which  art  embodies,  and  which  the 
writer  of  fiction  creates  but  cannot  describe. 

Specialization,  which  in  progressive  experience 
means  improved  efficiency,  in  evolution  means  new 
forms  of  life.  Here  we  confront  the  question  as  to 
gains  and  losses.  But  in  every  form  the  question 
takes,  it  is  as  if  we  asked :  Is  it  better  to  be  the  planet 
or  the  star?  At  every  stage  of  universal  evolution 
there  seems  to  be  a  surrender  of  power  for  some 
special  excellence.  We  can  estimate  the  gains,  but 
we  have  no  arithmetic  subtle  enough  to  calculate  the 
losses.  Some  kind  of  psychical  essences  may  in- 
habit the  stars,  from  whom  we  are  descended  and 
who  were  sponsors  at  our  aboriginal  christening. 

i6i 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

How  should  we  know?     The  Angel  of  the  Sun  is 
silent. 

But  we  do  know  that  the  emergence  of  organic 
and,  sequently,  of  human  life  upon  the  earth  was  per- 
mitted only  after  the  planet  had  given  up  a  large 
measure  of  its  heat  and  all  of  its  self -radiance  and 
had  established  an  extremely  modest  temperament. 
Structural  strength  seems  to  be  gained  at  the  loss 
of  much  of  that  creative  power  which  resides  in 
plastic  forms.  In  all  this  diminution  and  descent 
there  is  apparent  a  normal  decadence,  through  which 
the  cosmic  order  is  permitted  to  exist  and  to  enter 
into  its  wonderful  heritage  of  varied  beauty. 

The  values  thus  permitted  in  the  course  of  human 
evolution  are  those  we  most  prize,  and,  even  if  we 
were  able  to  count  the  cost,  it  is  not  likely  that  we 
would  wish  to  reverse  our  course,  any  more  than  we 
would  regret  the  abjectness  of  the  planet  or  desire 
to  return  to  a  sexless  kingdom  of  unicellular  organ- 
isms which  was  abandoned  on  pain  of  mortality. 

We  cheerfully  share  in  the  descents,  which  alone 
are  visible,  having  faith  in  the  ascension  of  life, 
which  is  hidden  from  us,  willingly  giving  ourselves 
up  to  the  beneficent  stream,  though  the  paths  by 
which  its  fountains  are  replenished  are  invisible. 

Creative  power  is  not  really  lost  in  the  apparent 
surrenders  we  have  made  in  the  evolutionary  pro- 
cedure ;  it  has  only  taken  upon  itself  new  veils,  ap- 
pearing thus  ever  again  in  fresher  charm  and  more 
gracious  offices. 

162 


CREATIVE   VALUES   IN   LIFE  AND   LITERATURE 

Having  seen  what  permission  is  given  to  new  and 
more  abundant  life  in  a  natural  and  normal  descent, 
we  may  more  easily  comprehend  the  permissive 
conditions  which  our  physical,  mental,  and  moral 
progress  has  afforded  for  such  life  and  for  imagina- 
tive creaton  in  art  and  literature. 

This  progress  at  its  root — that  is,  as  growing  out 
of  the  emergence  of  rational  consciousness,  the 
ground  of  arbitrary  volition  and  selection — is  itself 
evolutionary,  and  we  should  also  so  consider  it  in  its 
totality  if  we  could  view  it  as  a  completed  cycle; 
but  its  procedure  is,  at  every  point  of  its  departure 
from  native  and  instinctive  processes,  so  apparently 
contradictory  to  natural  evolution  that,  because  of 
our  inability  to  find  the  means  of  reconciliation  be- 
tween it  and  nature,  we  must  be  content  to  follow 
the  lines  of  its  divergence.  An  immense  advantage 
was  gained  through  the  specialization  which  made 
man  an  empiricist,  enabling  him  to  devise  means  for 
the  accomplishment  in  a  brief  period  of  what,  with- 
out his  experimental  intervention.  Nature  would 
take  ages  to  bring  about — of  what  indeed  for  the 
most  part  would  never  have  come  within  the  scope 
of  natural  operation.  Nature  simply  went  on  in  her 
fixed  circle,  but  in  doing  so  she  was  made  to  effect 
man's  deliberate  purposes,  he  only  putting  the  wisely 
chosen  element  or  machine  in  her  path.  Most  of 
man's  work  is  done  for  him  in  this  way  by  natural 
forces.  By  his  dependence  upon  reasoning  proc- 
esses his  native  instinct  was  veiled,  persisting  in  his 
"  163 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

passions  and  taking  new  forms  in  his  aesthetic  fac- 
ulty and  sensibiHty  and  in  all  the  creative  proc- 
esses of  his  genius  in  life  and  art. 

Progress,  even  under  the  old  aristocratic  regime, 
brought  about,  for  the  few,  conditions  of  wealth, 
luxury,  and  culture,  which  favored  the  manifesta- 
tions of  genius,  to  a  higher  degree  and  with  more 
eminent  results,  many  academic  critics  maintain, 
than  is  possible  in  a  democratic  society.  To  us  it 
seems  that  the  progress  of  the  last  century,  so  won- 
derful because  of  the  general  advance  in  popular 
freedom  and  general  education,  has  especially  af- 
forded permissive  conditions  for  new  species  in  the 
creative  evolution  of  life  and  literature.  We  are 
not  disappointed  because  there  are  no  giants  in  these 
days.  The  deeper  sensibility  calls  for  finer  forms 
and  has  no  regret  that  so  much  of  pomp  and  majesty 
has  passed  away.  Imagination  in  the  best  of  our 
literature  meets  our  life  on  even  terms  and  has  no 
advantage  in  its  creations  over  the  spontaneous  out- 
growths of  that  life,  save  in  its  greater  freedom  of 
selection;  it  has  no  separate  ideals,  no  discrete  ma- 
terial for  the  texture  of  its  living  pictures  and  charac- 
terizations, no  unlike  passions  in  its  drama,  no  diverse 
atmosphere.  Its  temperament,  like  that  of  our  life,  is 
modulated.  It  is  natural  in  that  it  repudiates  gloss 
and  artifice.  This  imagination  has  made  Science 
something  more  than  a  classification  of  phenomena 
by  giving  it  a  pregnant  co-ordination,  so  that  it  is  a 
fertile  field  of  wonders  which,  to  our  modern  sensibil- 

164 


CREATIVE   VALUES   IN    LIFE   AND   LITERATURE 

ity,  are  more  interesting  as  well  as  more  satisfactory,  in 
poetic  values,  than  ancient  myths  or  mediaeval  legends. 

Literature,  following  the  same  lines,  rejecting  the 
unreal,  has  become  homely  of  feature,  with  home- 
like sympathies,  graces,  and  charms,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  subtle  and  wonderful  in  its  disclosure  of 
the  deep  truths  of  life  than  it  ever  was  in  its  de- 
tachment from  life  or  in  its  reflection  of  a  life  which 
had  not  found  its  true  centre  in  a  spiritual  harmony 
and  was  therefore  itself  untrue,  wearing  all  sorts  of 
illusive  or  monstrous  disguises. 

On  the  structural  side  creative  life  and  literature 
have  gained  from  the  ingenuity  and  adaptive  wis- 
dom acquired  in  progressive  human  experience; 
while  a  pervading  reasonableness  is  their  pellucid 
atmosphere  Choice,  control,  and  reflection  enter 
as  almost  consciously  determinant  elements  in  this 
cosmic  order;  old  violences  are  subdued  and  ele- 
mental passions  tempered.  Our  sensibility  revolts 
from  the  volcanic  and  the  gigantesque.  By  our 
effort  or  through  wisdom  gained  by  our  experience 
we  can  neither  bring  into  being  nor  destroy  any  of 
the  primary  elements  of  nature  or  of  human  nature 
with  which  we  deal  and  which  deal  with  us.  In  the 
garden  which  we  tend,  every  living  thing  springs  up 
spontaneously,  with  its  proper  shape,  fragrance,  and 
flavor,  responsive  to  a  sensibility  equally  native  and 
spontaneous,  but  both  the  garden  and  our  sen- 
sibility answer  to  our  tillage  and  culture. 

165 


CHAPTER  IV 

REACTION   OF   GENIUS   UPON   THE   WORLD 

WE  were  showing  how  evolution  and  prog- 
ress played  into  each  other's  hands,  which 
is  natural,  seeing  that  progress,  at  its  root 
and  at  every  point  of  its  course  which  marks  a 
fresh  beginning,  is  itself  evolutionary. 

Thus  we  may  consider  democracy  as  an  institu- 
tional development,  in  different  degrees  of  efficiency 
at  different  periods  of  human  experience.  That  is 
its  progress.  But  when  we  regard  it  in  its  origin  and 
in  its  transformations  at  critical  epochs,  we  find 
that  we  must  refer  it  to  impulses  of  the  human 
spirit  which  transcend  experimentation  and  belong 
to  our  creative  life.  That  is  its  evolution.  Seen 
thus  in  its  beginnings,  its  new  births,  we  co-ordinate 
it  with  those  other  creative  manifestations  through 
which  the  human  spirit  has  been  emancipated.  So 
language  in  its  genesis  is  of  evolution  and  continues 
to  be  genetic  in  the  writer's  or  speaker's  expression 
when  that  expression  is  a  fresh  embodiment  of  imag- 
inative thought  or  feeling,  appealing  to  imaginative 
sensibility;  but  simply  as  an  instrument  of  com- 

i66 


REACTION   OF  GENIUS   UPON   THE   WORLD 

munication  for  ordinary  uses  it  is  an  indispensable 
factor  in  progress.  Thought  itself  arises  indepen- 
dently of  our  conscious  volition,  is  genetic,  as  is 
our  first  knowledge,  and  in  original  device  and  in- 
vention it  is  creative;  but,  as  adaptive  through  ob- 
vious means  to  definitely  conceived  ends,  it  merely 
subserves  the  utility  of  progress.  Habit  is  originally 
the  investment  of  creative  desire,  but,  as  a  habili- 
ment arbitrarily  assumed,  it  becomes  a  fashion  or  a 
convention.  Crystallization  supervenes  when  life  is 
reduced  to  its  lowest  terms,  and  this  is  broken  up 
by  a  creative  transformation,  which  is  evolutionary, 
awaiting  only  the  permissive  conditions.  Choice  is 
originally  instinctive  selection,  the  immediate  and 
spontaneous  dilection  of  the  creative  and  creatively 
shaping  imagination;  but  when  it  becomes  con- 
sciously arbitrary,  as  in  all  experimentation,  the 
creative  determination  is  no  longer  apparent,  being 
at  least  held  in  abeyance,  and  the  successes  thus 
achieved,  after  however  many  failures,  make  for  the 
efficiency  which  registers  human  progress  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  evolution  of  humanity. 

All  the  critical  epochs  of  progress,  in  so  far  as  they 
are  renascences  of  the  human  spirit,  are  evolutionary. 
The  greatest  of  these  renascences  in  history  was 
Christianity,  which  had  the  divine  felicity  of  em- 
bodiment in  a  singular  human  personality,  resuming 
all  the  powers  of  a  creative  life — powers  distinctive 
to  a  kingdom  of  never-ceasing  renascence,  subject 
to  no  confinement,  and  transcending  all  sacred  en- 

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THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

closures  and  rituals.  This  personality  becomes  thus 
the  Evangel  of  genius,  which  pays  conventional 
tribute  and  is  yet  free,  and  resumes  at  once  the 
powers  of  childhood  and  the  most  subtile  wisdom. 

Genius  is  common  to  humanity,  but  those  of  her 
children  who  most  cherish  her,  choosing  the  good 
part,  may  well  heed  many  a  gospel  reminder — es- 
pecially those  which  call  attention  to  the  superior 
wisdom,  in  some  respects,  of  the  children  of  the 
world  to  that  of  the  children  of  light,  and  which 
enjoin  friendship  with  those  who  build  more  lasting 
earthly  habitations — lessons  to  which  Tolstoy  paid 
so  much  regard  in  his  art  and  so  little  in  his  philos- 
ophy. The  meek  would  hardly  inherit  the  earth  save 
as  they  combine  the  wisdom  of  serpents  with  the 
harmlessness  of  doves.  To  teach  the  necessity  of  a 
firm  foundation  for  a  durable  edifice  and  of  a  fertile 
soil  to  a  fruitful  harvest  savors  even  of  pragmatism. 
The  plasticity  of  genius,  like  that  of  faith,  is  the 
ground  of  all  miracle,  but  structural  strength  is 
essential  to  firm  consistency  of  character  and  work. 

Ingenuity  as  a  trait  of  genius  means  something 
more  than  it  means  even  in  the  most  exquisite  dae- 
dalian  artifice;  it  involves  the  kind  of  imaginative 
co-ordination  which  in  the  thought  of  Newton  iden- 
tified the  falling  of  an  apple  with  cosmic  gravita- 
tion—  the  kind  which  has  prompted  those  inven- 
tions that  have  transformed  modern  economies.  It 
is  implied  in  the  rhythm  of  sculpture,  as  in  that  of 

i68 


REACTION    OF   GENIUS    UPON   THE    WORLD 

music  and  poetry,  and  in  the  composition  of  a  great 
painting. 

Progress  owes  more  to  genius  than  genius  does  to 
progress  Creative  imagination  gave  spectrum  anal- 
ysis to  science,  and  a  like  ingenuity  prompted  the 
application  of  its  principle  to  the  Bessemer  process 
in  the  manufacture  of  steel.  In  the  mind  of  Clerk- 
Maxwell  this  ingenuity  anticipated  and  stimulated 
those  experiments  which  prepared  the  way  for  the 
complex  functions  of  electricity  in  modern  indus- 
tries, just  as  in  the  mind  of  Laplace  it  had  origi- 
nated the  masterly  analysis  which  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  the  mathematical  sciences  of  heat,  electricity, 
and  magnetism;  in  the  minds  of  Rontgen,  Thomp- 
son, Ramsay,  and  Rutherford  it  has  disclosed  a 
new  world  of  radiant  phenomena;  and  what  it  has 
prompted  in  other  departments  of  chemistry  for  com- 
mercial uses  Professor  Duncan  has  abundantly  de- 
monstrated. The  "New  Knowledge"  finds  its  lead- 
ing clues,  even  in  philosophy,  in  these  disclosures 
of  evolutionary  processes  by  evolutionary  insight. 
It  is  genetic,  as  the  first  knowledge  was,  only  it  sees 
in  the  light  what  it  first  felt  toward  in  the  dark. 

In  fiction  the  author  deals  altogether  with  evolu- 
tionary processes  and  features  in  his  portrayal  of 
human  nature,  as  manifestly  he  must  in  such  por- 
trayal of  nature  as  may  come  within  the  scope  of  his 
art.  The  new  truths  disclosed  to  him,  which  he  em- 
bodies in  living  individual  characters  and  weaves 
into  the  social  texture  he  creates,  involve  on  his  part, 

169 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

though  through  a  different  method,  a  more  flexile 
and  varied  ingenuity,  in  insight  and  invention,  than 
that  which  distinguishes  the  masters  in  science  and 
philosophy  or  artists  in  other  fields.  Indeed,  he 
combines  all  these  masteries,  though  not  in  just  the 
same  forms  of  analysis  or  synthesis.  His  imagina- 
tion appeals  directly  to  the  intellectual  sensibility 
as  that  of  the  great  master  in  science  or  philosophy 
does;  but  it  also  appeals  directly  to  the  emotional 
sensibility  in  a  way  that  the  scientific  and  philosophic 
imagination  does  not.  The  sculptor  and  painter  and 
architect  appeal  to  aesthetic  sensibility  through  the 
eye,  as  the  musician  does  through  the  ear.  The 
novelist  is  not  subject  to  these  limitations — the 
whole  heart  and  mind  of  the  reader  are  directly  re- 
sponsive to  his. 

The  sculptor  for  the  durability  of  his  work  seizes 
upon  and  masters  an  alien  material  at  once  resistant 
and  plastic  to  his  hand,  and  the  beholder  of  the 
finished  statue  or  statuary  group  at  once  detects  a 
fault  of  form  or  of  rhythmic  harmony.  The  obliga- 
tions of  the  art  are  as  obvious  as  they  are  rigid. 
This  is  the  case  also  in  music  and  poetry.  In  fiction 
there  is  relaxation  and  free  play  as  to  both  theme 
and  method,  and,  in  the  judgment  of  it,  a  more  re- 
condite appreciation  is  demanded,  unaided  by  the 
eye  or  ear.  The  writer  more  easily  deceives  himself 
and  others  as  to  the  values  of  his  work  on  the  struct- 
ural side.  It  is  as  essential  to  him  as  it  is  to  the 
sculptor  that  there  should  be  action  and  reaction  in 

170 


REACTION   OF   GENIUS   UPON   THE   WORLD 

his  relation  to  his  material,  though  that  material  is 
not  the  hard  marble.  Tension  is  as  necessary  to  his 
imaginative  creation  as  it  is  to  that  of  the  poet, 
though  it  is  not  released  in  metrical  forms. 

Genius,  in  this  field,  may  and  often  does  fail  of 
mastery  because  of  the  very  freedom  of  its  realm 
and  the  facility  of  its  medium — that  is,  of  words, — 
and  if  it  also  has  a  loose  hold  upon  its  material,  its 
energy  is  dissipated,  and  there  can  be  no  consistency 
of  structure.  It  is  as  if  growth  were  arrested  in 
infancy.  In  such  cases  genius  has  no  vertebrate 
strength,  no  seizure  upon  the  world,  no  nutriment 
but  "the  milk  of  paradise."  In  the  imaginative 
literature  it  produces  we  see  only  the  fluent  traits  of 
childhood — infantile  grace,  quaintness,  and  naivete. 
It  is  spontaneous,  genuine,  and,  within  its  limitations, 
charming  and  wonderful,  having  the  positive  quality 
which  more  than  any  other  is  the  essential  character- 
istic of  genius,  but  no  firm  embodiment,  no  lasting 
habitation.  We  find  its  counterpart  in  the  lives  of 
Christians  who  seclude  themselves  from  the  world 
and  become  Quietists  or  Non-resistants, 

Genius  in  this  arrested  development  is  most  often 
overcome  by  the  world  through  the  perversions  of 
education  or  of  individual  and  social  experience. 
On  the  contrary,  it  should  overcome  the  world,  by 
appetite  and  seizure.  Else,  even  if  it  escapes  sup- 
pression and  passes  into  its  second  stage — that  of 
assimilation — instead  of  assimilating  its  proper  ma- 

171 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

terial  for  its  own  nutrition  and  expansion  it  becomes 
simply  imitative,  and  lacking  root  and  tension  of  its 
own,  is  again  arrested  within  the  limitations  of  an 
adopted  fashion. 

The  writer  whose  genius  is  persistent  passes 
through  these  two  stages  we  have  indicated,  but  with 
a  different  attitude  toward  the  world  it  is  given  him 
to  master.  In  him  the  creative  imagination  is  from 
the  first,  even  in  its  plastic  beginnings,  a  craving 
appetite,  taking  its  kingdom  with  violence.  In  its 
nurture  such  is  the  absorption  and  tension  that 
silence  marks  its  course,  such  expression  as  there  is 
in  this  period  being  incidental.  It  is  well  if  the 
period  of  nutrition  is  prolonged,  as  indeed  it  is  sure 
to  be,  according  to  the  scope  and  destiny  of  the 
individual  genius.  The  world  seems  to  exist  for 
the  reaction  upon  it  of  such  an  imagination  as 
Shakespeare's — the  robber  of  other  men's  stores 
and  of  all  the  treasuries  of  nature  and  humanity. 

For  here  too  there  is  assimilation — not  through 
adoptive  imitation — and  with  it  a  response  to  lead- 
ing notes,  but  the  master  finds  in  due  time  his  own 
centre,  his  individual  note.  He  is  not  of  the  world, 
though  it  is  his  heritage.  Not  one  of  the  objects 
of  human  pursuit  or  of  human  progress  is  an  object 
of  his  attainment,  though  of  humanity  itself  every 
passion,  every  hope  and  fear,  every  feature  of  its 
complex  drama,  is  an  intimate  concern  of  his  art 
and  enters  into  its  structure.  Heroism,  romance, 
faith,  as  elements  of  our  common  human  nature,  are 

172 


REACTION   OF   GENIUS   UPON   THE   WORLD 

at  his  command  for  enchantment  and  illumination, 
while  the  sadness  and  trouble  of  the  world,  the 
faultfulness  of  men  and  women,  and  the  inevitable 
dooms  of  fate  furnish  only  too  readily  the  glooms  and 
shadows  of  his  drama.  Provided  he  creates  charac- 
ters of  living  men  and  women  and  discloses  the  real 
truth  and  meaning  of  their  lives,  nothing  which  con- 
cerns these  lives — religious  feeling,  affection,  in- 
stitutional conditions,  social  impulses,  good  and 
evil  passions,  or  the  stress  and  pain  of  the  everlast- 
ing human  conflict — is  forbidden  him.  His  imagina- 
tion seizes  upon  this  living  material  which  is  subject 
to  his  selection,  in  the  line  of  his  individual  appetite; 
and  in  this  line  all  his  faculties  and  sensibilities  are 
eagerly  engaged.     This  is  his  special  culture. 

Thus  Dickens  devoured  his  England.  Thus  Hew- 
lett has  preyed  upon  his  Italy.  Other  writers  ac- 
cumulate facts  and  give  us  information,  or  collect 
data  which  they  use  in  pleading  special  causes.  The 
novelist  has  no  such  purposes,  no  concern  apart  from 
his  creative  representation  of  life,  and  in  so  far  as  he 
attempts  anything  beyond  this,  however  fine  or 
sympathetic  his  intention,  his  creative  power  is  held 
in  abeyance.  The  characterization  in  Mrs.  Gaskell's 
Mary  Barton  is  for  this  reason  far  inferior  to  that  in 
her  Cranford. 

No  novelist  of  our  time  has  to  such  an  extent 
assimilated  the  culture  of  the  modern  world  as  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward,  and  none  has  made  a  wiser  use  of  it 

173 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

for  the  purposes  of  her  art.  She  is  the  greatest  in- 
stitutional novelist  in  the  whole  range  of  English 
fiction.  But,  however  complex  the  social  back- 
ground of  any  of  her  more  important  recent  novels, 
she  has  done  full  justice  to  it  without  loss  of  creative 
power  in  characterization  or  dramatic  representa- 
tion. Perhaps  no  better  example  could  be  found  of 
the  effective  use  by  an  adept  novelist  of  present  social 
and  political  conditions  in  England  than  is  furnished 
in  the  early  chapters  of  The  Testing  of  Diana  Mallory. 
The  new  order  of  things  comes  well  to  the  front  in 
Tallyn  Hall,  where  Diana,  who  has  just  returned 
from  India  to  an  England  she  has  not  seen  since  in- 
fancy, participates  in  her  first  social  function.  Her 
pride  is  in  the  empire  and  the  army ;  but  the  contest 
in  which  she  stands  at  bay,  so  finely  and  truly  por- 
trayed in  every  feature  of  it,  is  not  allowed  to  possess 
the  reader  for  its  own  issues,  but  only  to  concentrate 
his  interest  upon  the  girl,  upon  her  frank,  resistant 
spirit,  in  a  situation  which  we  prophetically  discern 
as  pathetic,  even  while  the  elements  which  make  it 
so  are  yet  unknown  to  us,  veiled  in  the  mystery  which 
has  surrounded  her  from  birth.  All  the  circum- 
stances of  this  brilliantly  pictured  social  party  in 
Tallyn  Hall,  every  detail  —  even  the  ugly  frescos 
representing  the  progress  of  the  Iron  Trade — every 
character  introduced,  derive  their  significance  to  the 
reader  from  their  relation  to  Diana  Mallory. 

But  for  this  absorbing  dramatic   prepossession, 
how  interesting  all  the  features  which  compose  the 

174 


REACTION   OF   GENIUS   UPON  THE   WORLD 

background  would  be  in  themselves!  As  it  is,  the 
impression  abides  with  us,  a  conciliating  satisfaction 
on  its  own  account.  How  many  world-pictures  in 
Mrs.  Ward's  previous  fiction  do  we  treasure  in  our 
memories,  after  the  individual  human  dramas  as- 
sociated with  them  have  had  their  day  with  us!  How 
many,  too,  from  Meredith's  and  Hardy's!  Sir  Gil- 
bert Parker's  novel,  The  Weavers,  is  full  of  them, 
so  thoroughly  had  its  author  mastered  his  Egypt, 
and  so  readily  does  his  imagination  evoke  not  only 
the  vivid  Oriental  picture,  but  the  wonderful  im- 
pressions of  that  life  in  which  the  West  meets  the 
East.  All  this  we  shall  treasure  when  even  so  great  a 
personality  as  he  has  created  for  us  in  David  shall  be 
forgotten,  though  in  reading  the  novel  we  are  never 
permitted  to  forget  him,  however  fascinating  the 
background. 

In  some  creations  of  the  imagination  the  human 
drama  is  so  absorbing  that  striking  individual  charac- 
ter and  the  interest  of  the  situation  seem  sufficient. 
This  is  especially  so  with  that  kind  of  fiction  which, 
as  in  the  case  of  Dickens,  most  nearly  resembles 
modern  stage  representations.  Humor  is  dissipated 
by  the  distractions  of  an  elaborate  background. 
Comedy  is  confined  within  the  limits  of  the  con- 
temporaneous and  familiar  scene.  The  flavor  of  the 
story  of  provincial  life  and  character  will  not  bear  the 
admixture  of  anything  foreign  to  itself.  Romance, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  always  thrived  on  strange 

175 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

elements,  being  by  nature  as  nomadic  as  the  gypsy 
or  troubadour.  Intellectual  curiosity  is  in  this  re- 
spect most  nearly  allied  to  romance,  and,  as  it  seeks 
new  disclosures  in  science,  so,  in  all  the  higher  forms 
of  entertainment,  it  craves  new  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  of  humanity.  The  interest  of  the  modern 
novel  depends  ever  more  and  more  upon  the  writer's 
power  to  meet  and  satisfy  this  higher  curiosity,  to 
create  and  multiply  new  forms  of  intellectual  excite- 
ment, and  just  in  the  degree  of  the  story's  intension 
and  of  the  writer's  mastery  of  subjective  psychical 
phenomena,  is  there  the  need  of  extension  of  the 
world  affiliations  with  the  human  drama. 

Thus  the  modern  sensibility,  which  is  more  and 
more  a  feeling  of  the  mind,  veiling  elemental  passion, 
grows  tolerant  of  the  elaborate  backgroimd,  even  at 
the  sacrifice  of  striking  character  and  of  sensational 
emotion,  provided  it  is  not  a  contrived  background, 
but  a  creation  of  the  imagination.  We  have  at  least 
one  instance — in  Hichens's  The  Garden  of  Allah — 
where  the  writer's  imagination  is  exhausted  in  what 
might  be  called  the  characterization  of  the  back- 
ground, a  complex  portraiture  of  the  desert,  with  a 
subsidiary  story  that  serves  only  as  its  reflex,  the 
man  and  the  woman  chosen  for  this  purpose  repre- 
senting the  human  sensibility  which  determines  the 
impressions  conveyed.  That  such  a  novel  should 
prove  commercially  successful  shows  to  what  an  ex- 
tent the  imaginative  sensibility  of  readers  has  been 

176 


REACTION   OF   GENIUS    UPON   THE  WORLD 

developed — also  the  avidity  of  its  craving  for  those 
new  disclosures  which  genius  makes  through  its  mas- 
tery of  world -material  as  well  as  of  mind -material. 

Neither  of  The  Garden  of  Allah  nor  of  Mr.  Hichens's 
more  recent  novel,  Barhary  Sheep,  its  natural  suc- 
cessor, has  the  reader  cause  for  complaint  because 
of  any  lack  of  dramatic  satisfaction,  though  it  is  the 
Desert  that  is  dramatized  and  characterized  —  the 
Desert  in  its  contacts  with  the  human  soul.  In  the 
appeal  which  the  author  makes  to  the  higher,  or 
psychical,  curiosity,  he  stands  at  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, in  the  evolution  of  the  imagination,  to  the 
old-fashioned  playwright  and  story-teller.  His  work 
is  thus  a  remarkable  illustration  of  the  vast  depart- 
ure of  our  fiction  from  its  earliest  appeal  to  a  crude 
sensibility,  which  found  complete,  but  narrow,  satis- 
faction in  stirring  narrative  and  thrilling  dramatic 
situations. 

The  scheme  of  the  novel  has  widened  with  the 
desire  for  new  knowledge  of  the  real  world  without 
us  and  within  us — not  information,  or  logical  deduc- 
tions therefrom,  but  interpretation,  illumination. 
It  is  a  kind  of  curiosity  which  cannot  be  trifled  with 
by  any  of  the  old  tricks.  The  demand  upon  the 
writer  of  fiction  has  grown  more  exacting,  if  we  con- 
sider only  his  theme,  without  any  reference  to  his 
art  of  expression.  He  must  have  hunger  and  thirst 
for  reality,  the  invention  that  finds  it,  the  ingenuity 
which  is  the  insight  of  genius  in  the  great  discovery. 

177 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   DEPARTURE    FROM   THE   VICTORIAN    ERA 

WE  have  had  so  much  to  say  about  the  " new 
literature  "  that  we  might  very  well  be  chal- 
lenged to  give  some  positive  definition  of 
it,  and  to  show  wherein  it  is  new  and  what  evolution- 
ary advantage  or  value  is  disclosed  in  the  variation. 

The  new  literature  is  not  our  discovery.  Current 
criticism  has  not  failed  to  recognize  and  discerningly 
appreciate  its  values.  In  these  pages  we  have  par- 
ticipated in  that  criticism,  and,  we  confess,  with 
much  zest,  as  well  as  with  a  natural  pride,  because 
it  is  in  periodicals  that  this  new  literature  has  had 
its  amplest  opportunity  and  representation,  so  that 
magazine  readers  are,  above  all  others,  best  prepared 
for  an  intelligent  comprehension  of  its  novel  flavors, 
having  so  abundantly  partaken  of  the  fresh  vintage. 

Otherwise  we  should  despair  of  any  adequate 
characterization  of  that  kind  of  imaginative  crea- 
tion which — as  we  have  claimed — belongs  distinctive- 
ly to  our  own  time.  The  full  presentment  has  been, 
for  a  large  number  of  readers,  actually  made,  and  in 
their  minds  exists  the  background  necessary  to  an 

178 


THE   DEPARTURE   FROM  THE   VICTORIAN   ERA 

intelligible  critical  or  interpretative  comment.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  show  what  is  the  new  quality 
of  imaginative  writing  in  such  authors  as  Conrad, 
Hewlett,  Hichens,  Kenneth  Grahame,  or  Alfred 
Ollivant  to  readers  unacquainted  with  their  crea- 
tions ;  but  no  one  can  have  read  a  single  one  of  their 
works  without  a  vivid  sense  of  something  so  novel 
as  to  be  unprecedented.  The  very  mention  of  their 
names  suggests  a  quality  which,  for  what  it  is  in 
itself,  no  critic  can  define,  but  which  goes  far  to  illu- 
minate the  distinction  which  we  wish  to  emphasize. 
These  are  English  names;  but  while  in  America 
the  distinction  belongs  mainly  to  short  stories,  it 
is  apparent  also  in  the  work  of  some  of  our  recent 
and  contemporary  novelists — those  who,  like  Henry 
James,  William  Dean  Howells,  Henry  Harland,  Owen 
Wister,  Edith  Wharton,  Margaret  Deland,  and  Mary 
Austin,  have  departed  from  the  traditions  of  the 
Victorian  era.  It  is  in  the  short  stories  of  the  last 
ten  years  that  this  departure  is  most  evident  and 
that  distinctively  new  features  in  our  imaginative 
literature — so  new  as  to  be  unprecedented — are  most 
clearly  manifest.  The  novelists  we  have  named 
have  illustrated  this  new  literature  chiefly  in  short 
stories,  while  it  is  in  these  alone  that  other  writers 
have  been  eminent  from  this  point  of  view — Georg 
Schock,  Muriel  Campbell  Dyar,  Jennette  Lee,  Mar- 
garet Cameron,  Forrest  Crissey,  Elmore  Elliot  Peake, 
James  Branch  Cabell,  Justus  Miles  Forman,  Norman 
Duncan,  and,  notably,  Grace  Ellery  Channing. 
13  179 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

Enlarging  the  compass  of  our  retrospect  so  as  to 
cover  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  of  English  and 
American  fiction,  we  have  a  fairer  representation  of 
the  new  literature  in  its  inception.  This  period 
would  include  the  mature  work  of  Henry  James, 
whose  extreme  modernity  is  unquestioned ;  A  Modern 
Instance  and  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  by  Howells, 
whose  spirit  and  aim  in  fiction  as  well  as  his  critical 
view  of  its  proper  scope  and  method  give  him  the 
position  of  a  leader  in  this  new  path;  the  most 
important  novels  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  in  the 
texture  of  which,  though  more  than  any  other  con- 
temporary writer  she  maintains  the  continuity  of 
culture  from  the  Victorian  era  to  our  own,  she  has 
advanced  per  saltum  into  a  field  not  cultivated  even 
by  George  Eliot;  the  fiction  of  Mary  Wilkins,  after 
her  native  genius  had  taken  on  form  and  structure; 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett's  rural  sketches ;  Kipling's  short 
stories,  and  the  best  work  of  Mark  Twain. 

This  period  reaches  back  far  enough  to  include 
characteristic  examples  of  the  work  of  two  writers — 
Thomas  Hardy  and  George  Meredith — who  came  into 
their  own,  indeed,  in  the  Victorian  era,  but  were 
wholly  distinct  from  the  group  to  which  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  Reade,  and  George  Eliot  belonged.  They 
were  prophets  of  a  coming  literature,  whose  writers 
call  them  masters — Meredith  for  his  appeal  to  the 
intellectual  sensibility,  while  Hardy's  work  has  been 
more  eminently  representative  of  the  new  creative 
faculty  than  that  of  his  successors. 

1 80 


THE   DEPARTURE    FROM   THE    VICTORIAN    ERA 

To  have  passed  beyond  these  writers  into  new 
fields  is  not  to  have  surpassed  them.  Such  an  ad- 
vance has  been  made,  but  we  are  not  claiming  for 
the  fresh  variations  of  our  present  literature,  how- 
ever novel  or  unprecedented,  any  superior  eminence. 
Greatness  is  possible  in  the  future,  as  it  has  been  in 
the  past,  through  some  surprising  emergence  of  in- 
dividual genius,  but  it  will  be- greatness  of  a  new 
order,  not  having  the  insignia  of  what  was  account- 
ed greatness  in  any  previous  time.  The  writers  who 
hold  the  advance  in  our  generation  are  not  greater 
than  their  predecessors,  but  they  prosper  through 
their  appeal  to  an  advanced  sensibility. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHANGES    IN    HUMAN    NATURE 

NO  notion  is  more  obstinately  maintained  than 
that  human  nature  is  the  same  in  all  ages. 
"Essentially  the  same,"  the  phrase  usually 
runs,  thus  leading  on  to  a  particularly  infertile  on- 
tological  speculation.  We  do  not  know  what  any- 
thing essentially  is — what  the  "thing  in  itself"  is — 
but  only  phenomena,  and  only  such  phenomena  as 
are  realized  for  us  within  the  range  of  our  perception, 
the  scope  of  which  science  has  considerably  enlarged. 
It  is  only  through  changes  in  things  without  us  or 
in  ourselves  that  we  know  at  all,  that  we  have  con- 
sciousness. 

The  idea  of  sameness  does  not  belong  to  the  con- 
tent of  any  real  knowledge  of  ours,  and  occurs  to  us 
only  after  or  along  with  our  sense  of  some  difference 
or  change,  as  a  complement  or  reflex,  due  to  a  very 
useful  and  quite  indispensable  mental  habit,  but  for 
which  any  generalization  would  be  impossible,  or 
even  the  idea  of  personal  identity,  or  such  a  process 
as  memory.  But  inevitable  and  important  as  this 
habit  is — as  important  as  the  attraction  of  gravita- 

182 


CHANGES  IN  HUMAN  NATURE 

tion  is  in  the  universe, — the  bond  of  all  our  diverse 
expaHse  of  knowledge,  it  is  and  must  forever  remain 
something  wholly  of  the  mind,  not  a  constituent 
element  of  our  perception  of  what  is  going  on  with- 
out us  or  within  us.  The  idea  of  sameness  is,  then, 
a  notion,  in  a  negative  way  agreeable  and  satis- 
factory when  we  reflect  upon  its  constitutional  value 
— as  when  we  reflect  upon  that  of  gravitation — but 
not  particularly  or  really  interesting.  It  is  the  diver- 
sity and  expansion  which  engage  in  a  positive  way 
our  eager  curiosity  and  interest. 

We  note  this  element  of  positive  pleasure  and 
excitement  in  scientific  pursuits.  The  investigator, 
while  he  is  duly  grateful  for  his  ability  to  classify 
phenomena,  and  especially  for  that  power  of  co- 
ordination which  is  distinctive  of  the  scientific  im- 
agination, does  not  rest  in  his  generalizations,  but 
goes  on  seeking  new  diversities  and  variations  which 
disclose  evolution,  thus  adding  to  the  stock  of  real 
knowledge,  which  is  a  sure  possession,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  finds  that  some  of  the  generalizations 
which  seemed  sure  and  sufficient  have  to  be  aban- 
doned, however  serviceable  they  may  have  been  tem- 
porarily. 

The  story  of  electricity  illustrates  our  point.  This 
force  was  always  as  important  physically  and  phys- 
iologically as  it  is  to-day;  but  the  ancients  knew 
nothing  of  it  except  as  apparent  in  the  amber  which 
gave  it  its  name.     Only  within  about  a  century  and 

183 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

a  half  was  it  identified  with  its  most  common  and 
at  the  same  time  most  striking  physical  manifesta- 
tion— the  lightning.  In  general  it  was  a  continuous 
current,  everywhere  flowing,  but  unknown  because 
unbroken.  In  the  course  of  scientific  experimenta- 
tion the  current  was  broken,  was  discriminated  as 
positive  and  negative;  and,  following  it  by  the 
flashes  of  its  brokenness,  we  have  now  a  voluminous 
record  of  real  knowledge  concerning  it  and  a  special 
system  of  mathematics  whereby  we  have  measured 
what  we  had  so  compoundly  divided.  Its  co-ordi- 
nation with  light,  heat,  and  magnetism,  intimating 
a  beautiful  harmony,  was  an  inevitable  consequence 
of  disclosures  resulting  from  a  careful  study  of  the 
phenomena  of  these  forces  and  of  their  common 
mathematics;  but  the  likeness  is  not  so  really  in- 
teresting to  us  as  the  specialization,  the  lines  of 
which,  in  infinite  variations,  we  are  still  following 
with  ever-increasing  zest. 

The  student  of  the  cell  knows  how  complete  a 
mask,  which  even  the  microscope  cannot  penetrate, 
identity  is — or  at  least  what  seems  absolute  identity ; 
but  he  knows  also  how  quickly  germination  unmasks 
the  variant  life. 

Herbert  Spencer's  first  proposition  concerning  evo- 
lution— that  it  is  the  development  of  the  heteroge- 
neous from  the  homogeneous — -is  significant.  The 
heterogeneity  is  evident  enough,  but  the  primary 
homogeneity  is  merely  a  notion.  Sameness,  or  what 
is  mentally  presumed  to  be  sameness,  is,  in  this  ab- 

184 


CHANGES  IN  HUMAN  NATURE 

original  case,  an  immense  mask,  which  no  human 
wisdom  can  penetrate,  and  we  have  to  substitute 
for  it  Mutability  itself  as  primary — the  creative  de- 
termination toward  infinite  specialization.  Univer- 
sal homogeneity,  as  a  reality,  is  inconceivable. 

Could  anything  be  duller  than  history  written 
with  a  view  to  prove  or  illustrate  the  persistent  uni- 
formity of  human  nature?  We  know,  indeed,  that 
some  things  are  normally  common  to  all  men  in  their 
physical  and  mental  constitution;  and  if  we  could 
put  ourselves  back  to  that  remote  period  when 
humanity  had  not  risen  above  the  plane  of  the 
animal,  or  above  the  mentality  incident  to  his  ac- 
tions and  passions  on  such  a  plane,  when  what  seem- 
ed his  possibilities  could  be  predicated,  as  in  the 
case  of  other  animals,  from  his  physical  structure, 
including  his  brain — if  there  ever  was  such  a  period, 
however  brief, — we  might  be  impressed  by  a  sense  of 
uniformity,  in  a  general  way  corresponding  to  our 
sense  of  uniformity  in  Nature.  It  would  not  be  a 
situation  pleasant  to  contemplate,  since  it  must 
have  been  one  in  which  the  comparative  inferiority 
of  the  human  species  would  be  strikingly  manifest. 
In  such  sameness  of  human  nature  as  would  thus  be 
presented  we  should  confront  a  mask  hiding  every- 
thing which  we  count  distinctive  of  humanity. 

Our  historical  researches  do  not  enable  us  to  even 
approach  such  a  period,  but  they  carry  us  back  far 
enough  to  disclose  a  humanity  so  intimately  blended 

185 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

with  Nature  that  we  still  confront  an  impenetrable 
mask,  hiding  man's  proper  destiny  as  completely  as 
the  barren  primeval  earth  withheld  from  possible 
prevision  her  future  investiture  of  life  and  beauty. 

This  primitive  period  endured  the  longest  and  was 
the  most  persistent  in  stability  of  any  in  human 
history,  having  only  a  fragmentary  record,  since 
there  was  so  little  in  it  worthy  of  any  record.  So 
lacking  in  diversity,  it  could  not  minister  to  our  in- 
tellectual diversion.  The  student  whose  regard  is 
most  closely  confined  to  a  remote  view  of  humanity 
is  naturally  disposed  to  insist  upon  the  everlasting 
sameness  of  human  nature,  not  merely  in  its  con- 
stituent elements,  but  in  its  motives,  impulses,  and 
sense  of  life.  We  are  not  surprised,  therefore,  that 
so  eminent  an  arch^ologist  as  Flinders  Petrie  should 
lay  such  stress  upon  this  view  as  he  does  in  his 
Janus  in  Modern  Life,  which  in  every  other  way  is 
most  pertinently  and  intensely  modern. 

The  moment  man  transcended  the  scope  of  phys- 
ical action  and  passion,  the  mentality  incident  to 
these,  and  an  exclusive  regard  for  primary  family 
and  social  relations  consequent  upon  them  —  the 
moment  of  his  psychical  awakening,  when  his  im- 
agination entered  its  distinctive  realm,  and  creative- 
ly projected  its  embodiments,  no  longer  confined  to 
those  primitive  choric,  lyric,  and  dramatic  mani- 
festations in  which  the  physical  body  is  an  indis- 
pensable participant — that  moment  of  escape  from 
the  chrysalis  of  humanity  marked  the  commence- 

j86 


CHANGES   IN   HUMAN   NATURE 

ment  of  a  series  of  marvellous  changes  which  were 
transformations  of  human  nature  itself.  This  is 
the  course  of  evolution — on  the  lower  and  primary 
plane  long  periods  with  few  and  almost  imperceptible 
variations;  on  the  higher,  a  more  and  more  rapid 
succession  of  distinct  epochs  with  ever-increasing 
variations,  until  it  is  convincingly  apparent  that 
man,  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  proper  destiny, 
is  of  all  beings  the  most  mutable. 

The  field  of  his  mutability  is  the  widest,  in  part 
because,  as,  having  choice,  he  is  the  master  of  ma- 
terials and  of  limitless  artifice  through  the  immense 
range  of  artificial  selection,  and,  as  having  a  pro- 
gressively complex  consciousness,  he  is  the  one 
earthly  spectator  of  the  course  of  things  and  events 
in  the  world  outside  of  him  and  of  human  phe- 
nomena ;  but  chiefly  because  of  his  psychical  faculty 
and  sensibility,  as  having  creative  imagination,  the 
determinant  of  his  faith,  his  art,  his  literature,  his 
philosophy — all  of  his  life  that  gives  him  distinction 
and  that  makes  his  human  history  interesting. 

Now  the  mutations  in  the  psychical  world  cor- 
respond to  those  in  Nature  in  that  they  are  genetic, 
or  creative,  transformations;  that  is,  evolutionary, 
as  distinguished  from  the  changes  that  occur  in 
progressive  experience,  due  to  arbitrary  selection, 
to  conscious  adaptation  of  means  to  ends.  They 
are  necessary  to  explain  why  man  has  that  inter- 
mediary wisdom  by  which  he  is  the  singular  artificer, 

x87 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

the  builder  of  civilizations,  for  of  what  worth  are 
all  his  devices  without  this  psychical  evolution  ?  But 
for  this  evolution  all  his  discourse  of  reason  would 
be  a  barren  and  inexplicable  waste. 

But,  as  the  master  artificer,  he  has  such  power 
to  promote  psychical  changes  in  himself  as  he  has 
to  affect  natural  processes,  through  his  arbitrary- 
selection.  Owing  to  what  he  has  fashioned,  to  the 
artificial  elements  of  his  civilization,  the  psychical 
transformations  have  had  even  a  more  rapid  succes- 
sion. His  freedom  of  choice  saves  him  from  con- 
finement to  the  fixed  circles  in  which  Nature  moves, 
and  there  is  no  possible  mathematical  calculation  of 
any  critical  moment  marking  his  ascensions  or  dec- 
linations; while  his  power  to  determine  to  so  great 
an  extent  his  own  environment  is  a  new  acceleration 
of  his  progress,  affording  fresh  permissive  conditions 
of  his  psychical  evolution.  Every  vantage  gained 
for  individual  liberty  through  institutional  advance, 
inspired  by  new  awakenings  of  the  human  spirit,  has 
multiplied  these  permutations. 

The  radical  changes  in  human  nature  belong  to 
the  psychical  field,  but  we  must  include  in  our  con- 
sideration not  only  what  the  creative  imagination 
has  been  in  science,  art,  literature,  faith,  and  philos- 
ophy, but  what  it  has  been  in  life,  independently  of 
these.  It  is  true  that  we  can  have  no  idea  of  any 
past  age,  in  this  respect,  as  real  as  that  we  have  of 
our  own,  because  the  phenomena  are  so  evanescent 

i88 


CHANGES   IN    HUMAN   NATURE 

and  can  only  be  indirectly  suggested  by  accessible 
records,  though  more  adequately  by  literature  than 
in  any  other  way.  If  these  phenomena  could  be 
reproduced  for  us  in  their  reality,  the  great  civiliza- 
tions of  the  past  would  disclose  more  delicate  graces 
and  beauties  of  social  intercourse  than  can  be  divined 
by  the  archceologist  or  the  historian.  The  Homeric 
poems  incidentally  give  us  glimpses  of  such  qualities 
in  the  life  to  which  these  old  epics  belong,  and,  as 
truly  as  these,  due  to  the  creative  imagination, 
shaping  the  spiritual  features  of  that  life. 

There  were  as  good  codes  of  morality,  indicating 
as  much  regard  for  the  obvious  virtues,  six  thousand 
years  ago  as  we  have  to-day;  but  blended  with  this 
morality  in  human  action  were  positive  excellences, 
independent  of  formal  injunction,  making  up  the 
full  embodiment  of  such  ideals  as  were  possible. 
It  is  in  this  spiritual  physiognomy — which  we  call, 
in  the  largest  sense.  Manners — that  the  conduct 
of  human  life  has  been  tmdergoing  marvellous 
changes  during  two  hundred  generations;  and  these 
transformations  have,  in  every  stage  of  the  evolution, 
been  reflected  in  art  and  literature — in  all  the  monu- 
ments of  creative  imagination — rather  than  in  in- 
stitutional forms  and  conventions,  which  would 
forever  remain  the  same,  in  obstinate  stability,  but 
for  the  psychical  renewals  of  the  whole  fabric  of  life, 
a  good  part  of  them,  indeed,  being  retained  from 
age  to  age  because  of  their  permanent  formal  value. 
If  we  could  have  as  clear  and  full  view  of  the  old 

189 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

times  as  of  our  own,  we  should  see  that  in  every 
distinctive  aspect  of  human  life  the  distinction  is  to 
be  accounted  for  by  the  creatively  shaping  imagina- 
tion which  determines  man's  psychical  destiny  in  its 
limitless  range  of  transmutations. 

Just  here  we  confidently  meet  Flinders  Petrie's 
assertion  that  "the  nature  of  mind  is  unchanged, 
its  motives,  its  feelings,  its  sense  of  life;  only  in 
knowledge  and  the  applications  of  it  do  we  differ 
from  the  earliest  civilization  that  we  can  trace.  .  .  . 
The  mind  is  the  same,  only  the  stock-in-trade  of  it 
has  increased."  It  is  surprising  to  find  such  a  view 
expressed  by  an  author  who  admits  and  lays  stress 
upon  an  evolution  in  mind  corresponding  to  that  in 
Nature.  Knowledge  is  not  simply  cumulative — an 
ever-increasing  "stock-in-trade" — imless  we  limit  it 
to  mere  information ;  it  has  evolutionary  variations 
in  which  the  creative  imagination  is  not  only  partici- 
pant but  determinant. 

The  fund  of  information  is  cumulative,  and  may 
be  transmitted  from  generation  to  generation.  But 
a  new  "sense  of  life,"  or  of  the  world,  can  originate 
only  with  some  renascence  of  sensibility  itself.  New 
knowledge,  in  this  sense  of  it,  is  possible  only  as  man 
psychically  experiences  new  birth.  In  some  of  its 
features,  advanced  civilization  involves  merely  modi- 
fication of  conditions  and  methods ;  in  other  and  dis- 
tinctive aspects  it  is  a  continuous  creation,  involving 
renewals  of  human  nature. 

The  first  projections  of  the  imagination  in  re- 

190 


CHANGES  IN  HUMAN  NATURE 

ligion  and  art,  simply  as  projections,  are  significant 
of  a  mighty  transformation  by  which  man  created 
something,  beyond  himself  and  beyond  the  world 
next  to  him,  in  what  we  call  mythology.  Still  re- 
taining the  old  method  of  physical  expression, 
through  the  dance  and  the  use  of  nature-symbols, 
his  crude  accompanying  lyric  leaped  to  overtones 
which  he  seemed  to  overhear  and  which  suggested 
a  transcendent  kinship.  The  myth  was  born,  and 
a  way  was  disclosed  leading  humanity  out  of  its 
primitive  naturalism.  The  ritual  was  continued, 
but  was  radically  modified ;  the  story  of  the  god  was 
interjected,  giving  it  a  new  meaning,  attractive 
enough  to  arrest  the  processional  for  its  hearing. 
In  poetry  and  in  the  plastic  arts  there  was  a  like  pro- 
jection of  the  imagination,  concentrating  upon  the 
new  and  lofty  theme.  The  glory  of  the  Hellenic 
civilization  became  possible  to  men  who  loved  the 
sea,  who  were  not  rooted  in  the  soil  nor  slavishly 
held  by  the  old  naturalistic  bond,  and  who  may 
be  said  to  have  projected  themselves  and  their  life 
to  the  same  heights  their  art  and  their  faith  inhab- 
ited, breaking  away  from  agricultural  isolation  and 
becoming  the  builders  of  cities.  Human  instincts 
were  psychically  illuminated  and  uplifted,  permit- 
ting a  nobler  development  of  domestic  affection,  of 
friendship,  of  romantic  love,  of  general  social  inter- 
course, and  of  a  patriotism  freed  from  tribal  lim- 
itation and  nourishing  the  desire  for  civic,  freedom 
— at  least  for  a  select  body  of  citizens. 

191 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

If  we  pass  abruptly  from  this  pagan  civilization, 
the  most  excellent  of  antiquity,  to  that  which  flourish- 
ed in  the  cities  of  Italy  after  the  revival  of  learning — 
if  we  pass  from  Sophocles  and  Phidias  to  Dante  and 
Michelangelo — we  find  the  same  projectiveness  of  the 
imagination,  a  more  elaborate  pageantry,  the  mute 
participation  of  the  multitude,  but,  beneath  and  in 
all  this  spectacle,  we  discern  a  new  human  nature, 
not  only  as  manifest  in  the  creations  of  art  and  in 
psychical  sensibility,  but  also  in  impulses,  motives, 
and  the  sense  of  life,  responsive  to  a  loftier  and 
deeply  heart-searching  theme. 

Passing  from  Dante  to  Wordsworth,  the  psychical 
transformation  is  still  more  wonderful,  and  includes 
a  large  body  of  the  English  -  speaking  people  who 
have  achieved  individual  freedom  of  selection  and 
interpretation. 

In  these  long  leaps,  from  age  to  age,  the  radical 
changes  in  human  nature  become  evident  at  a  glance 
and  without  laborious  discrimination.  But  we  are 
living  in  a  time  when  a  decade  stands  for  an  epoch 
in  psychical  evolution.  There  is  now  no  far  quest 
of  the  imagination  in  art  or  in  life ;  it  has  come  home 
to  the  human  spirit.  The  projection,  the  spectacle, 
the  remote  symbol,  have  passed;  and  the  new  varia- 
tions, however  radical,  are  therefore  not  so  readily 
open  to  outward  observation. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    NEW    PSYCHICAL    ERA 

WE  hardly  appreciate  the  rapid  transforma- 
tion of  human  nature,  on  its  highest  levels, 
within  a  single  generation.  In  this  consid- 
eration, "the  highest  levels"  are  those  attained  by 
the  great  middle  class,  who  constitute  the  main  au- 
dience for  the  best  literature — at  least,  this  is  the  case 
in  America.  Thackeray,  in  his  lectures  on  English 
Humorists,  was  addressing  such  a  class  in  England; 
and  in  his  lecture  on  Steele,  contrasting  the  Victorian 
with  the  Queen  Anne  era,  he  said:  "You  could  no 
more  suffer  in  a  British  drawing-room,  under  the  reign 
of  Queen  Victoria,  a  fine  gentleman  or  fine  lady  of 
Queen  Anne's  time,  or  hear  what  they  heard  and 
said,  than  you  would  receive  an  ancient  Briton." 
The  lecturer  had  just  before  referred  to  Tyburn,  and 
remarked  that  a  great  city  had  grown  over  the  old 
meadows.  "Were  a  man  brought  to  die  there  now, 
the  windows  would  be  closed  and  the  inhabitants 
keep  their  houses  in  sickening  horror.  A  hundred 
years  ago  people  crowded  to  see  this  last  act  of  a 
highwayman's  life  and  make  jokes  on  it." 

193 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

Not  more  than  one-half  of  the  time  during  which 
that  change  had  been  experienced^  has  elapsed  since 
these  statements  were  made,  yet  it  has  sufficed  for 
a  change  far  more  remarkable,  and  which,  because 
it  is  not  outwardly  so  obvious,  is  therefore  all  the 
more  radical. 

In  the  brief  period  since  the  sixth  decade  of  the 
nineteenth  century  more  has  been  achieved  in  the 
material  progress  of  the  English  race  than  in  its 
whole  previous  history,  and  the  most  important 
result  of  this  progress  has  been  such  intimate  inter- 
communication as  has  broken  up  isolation.  There 
was  precipitated — not  caused,  but  permitted — a  new 
era  of  psychical  evolution,  involving  something  far 
deeper  than  an  increased  refinement  in  manners — 
a  revolution  in  human  thought  and  feeling,  a  chang- 
ed attitude  toward  life  and  the  world,  the  creation 
indeed  of  a  new  psychical  sensibility,  to  which  must 
be  referred  those  determinations  of  the  imaginative 
faculty  which  have  given  rise  to  recent  variations  in 
literature  and  philosophy  and  to  a  radical  readjust- 
ment of  all  the  arts  in  their  relations  to  life  and 
literature. 

'  The  change  in  refined  sensibility  which  made  public  execu- 
tions abhorrent  had  really  taken  place  within  a  decade.  As 
late  as  1840  Thackeray  contributed  an  article  to  Fraser's  Maga- 
zine on  "  Going  to  See  a  Man  Hanged,"  in  which  he  described 
the  execution  of  Courvoisier  at  Newgate,  attended  by  "forty 
thousand  persons  of  all  ranks  and  degrees — -mechanics,  gentle- 
men, pickpockets,  members  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament, 
street- walkers,"  etc.  A  similar  change  in  public  sentiment 
marked  the  same  decade  in  New  York  and  New  England. 

194 


THE   NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

The  political  historian  dates  modern  history  from 
the  rise  of  the  middle  classes  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
The  psychical  historian  must  date  it  from  some  point 
a  little  later  than  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, when  the  human  reason  and  imagination,  fol- 
lowing the  course  long  before  taken  by  science,  broke 
with  all  forms  of  scholasticism,  of  traditional  au- 
thority, and  of  merely  notional  thinking.  Meta- 
physic  was  henceforth  doomed,  and  all  attempts  at 
a  logical  explanation  of  life,  present  or  past,  were 
discredited  as  sterile  and  unprofitable.  Kant,  or- 
ganizing what  the  Scotch  metaphysicians  had  at- 
tempted to  describe  and  logically  define,  had  already 
determined  the  limitations  of  the  human  under- 
standing and  the  inevitable  self  -  contradictions  of 
its  judgments  in  any  speculation  transcending  the 
narrow  field  of  practical  human  experience.  Ap- 
pearances had  been  shown  to  have  a  validity  which 
did  not  inhere  in  any  mental  inferences  from  them — 
as  Copernicus  had  long  ago  demonstrated — and 
science  had  confined  itself  to  the  study  of  phenomena, 
preparing  the  way  for  the  evolutionary  philosophy, 
which  marked  the  beginning  of  modern  psychics. 

Imagination  turned  upon  its  own  past  creations, 
which  had  followed  the  suggestions  of  a  myth- 
making  or  speculative  fancy  and  had  partaken  of 
their  fallacies.  What  was  true — not  logically  or 
mathematically,  but  vitally  true — was  alone  inter- 
esting. The  new  literature  was  born  with  the  new 
knowledge  and  with  the  hunger  for  it  of  that  compar- 
14  195 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

atively  large  audience  which  in  the  course  of  mate- 
rial progress  had  been  brought  under  its  appetizing 
and  stimulating  influences. 

Even  in  isolated  communities  every  child  of  the 
middle  class  in  England  and  America  had  received 
some  kind  of  schooling,  and  for  two  hundred  years 
the  English-speaking  people  had  enjoyed  representa- 
tive government,  free  from  the  royal  absolutism 
which  in  the  sixteenth  century  both  the  Renaissance 
and  the  Reformation  upheld  as  a  necessary  condi- 
tion to  national  organization,  but  which,  when  that 
necessity  ceased,  had  yielded  perforce  to  parliamen- 
tary control.  In  1850  three-fourths  of  the  people  of 
England  and  Wales  could  read  and  write;  and  in 
the  Northern  and  Western  States  of  the  American 
Union  there  was  a  school  in  every  hamlet.  The  ex- 
ploitation of  enfranchised  masses  for  the  benefit  of 
the  few  was  impossible.  Yet  the  isolation  was  suffi- 
cient to  hold  in  secure  crystallization  the  general 
thought  and  feeling,  until  steam  and  electricity  broke 
down  every  barrier  and  permitted  the  free  mingling 
of  all  psychical  currents,  not  merely  to  seek  a  com- 
mon level,  but  to  find,  in  intimate  contacts,  rein- 
forcement, inspiration,  and  illumination. 

Thus  recently  have  we  experienced  this  great 
renascence,  coming  without  observation,  not  sud- 
den— it  is  yet  in  its  mild  spring-time — and  far  from 
universal,  since  only  those  who  hunger  and  thirst 
for  the  new  knowledge  may  be  filled.  The  most 
radical  of  all  revolutions,   it  has  been  unattended 

196 


THE   NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

by  violence.  No  authority  could  withstand  or  pun- 
ish what  was  itself  supremely  authoritative.  The 
conflict  between  the  reason  of  man  and  his  faith 
was  a  thing  of  the  past,  even  before  reason  had  been 
purged  of  sophistication  and  faith  of  its  unrealities. 
Human  imagination  and  human  faith  found  the  same 
centre  of  harmony  by  the  self-same  movement.  The 
whole  psychical  atmosphere  was  cleared  of  abstrac- 
tions which  had  inhabited  and  dominated  it  for 
centuries — the  Powers  of  the  Air. 

The  new  sensibility  is  a  sensibility  to  reality — 
that  is  its  positive  characteristic.  What  is  distinc- 
tive of  it  is  its  psychical  apprehension  of  reality  un- 
disguised and  relieved  of  sophistication.  It  calls  for 
a  literature  having  a  corresponding  character  and 
distinction.  A  superficial  realism  like  that  of  Defoe 
would  not  meet  this  demand,  and  the  more  refined 
realism  of  Maria  Edge  worth,  Jane  Austen,  and 
Susan  Ferrier  is  for  us  only  less  superficial.  The 
nearest  examples  to  be  drawn  from  the  past  are 
Mrs.  Gaskell's  Cranford  and  George  Eliot's  earliest 
sketches  and  novels,  because  these  are  so  simply 
and  sympathetically  real.  But  for  these  and  for  the 
exceptions  already  made  of  Meredith  and  Hardy, 
the  break  of  the  new  fiction  from  the  old  is  absolute. 

The  departure  is  as  strikingly  manifest  in  other 
fields  of  imaginative  literature — in  history,  in  the 
essay,  in  interpretative  criticism — as  in  fiction.  In 
all,   the   sophistication   which  lurks  in  facile   gen- 

197 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

eralization  and  abstract  thinking  is  alien  to  the  new 
psychical  mood,  temperament,  or,  as  we  prefer  to 
call  it,  sensibility.  Even  Emerson  seems  to  us 
aerial.  Those  from  whom  the  immediately  preced- 
ing generation  derived  its  most  potent  inspirations 
— Coleridge,  Ruskin,  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  De  Quincey, 
Emerson — while  we  clearly  discern  certain  perma- 
nent, because  essentially  real,  values  in  their  thought, 
are  to  us,  for  the  most  part,  unconvincing.  We 
respond  to  a  new  kind  of  interpretation  in  Pater, 
Symonds,  Maeterlinck,  William  James,  and  in  our 
later  historians,  whose  distinctive  value  is  that  they 
find  truth,  in  its  very  place  and  time,  in  its  own 
color  and  form,  recreating  it  in  their  presentment, 
just  as  the  new  fiction  is  a  fresh  representation  of 
life,  rather  than  of  the  novelist's  views  of  life. 

We  have  come  back  to  the  world  of  appearances, 
recognizing  the  truth  of  the  deliverances  of  the  senses, 
whatever  falsehood  may  have  formerly  been  lodged 
in  mental  inferences  from  them  or  in  fanciful  as- 
sociations with  them,  traditionally  perpetuated.  Ele- 
mental sensations  have  been  freed  from  the  asso- 
ciation with  them  of  human  action  and  passion  on 
the  barbaric  plane  or  on  the  extremely  opposite 
plane  of  superrefined  asstheticism.  Our  (Bsthesis  is 
one  that  has  been  restored  to  us  in  its  native  quality, 
its  pristine  freshness,  and  which  thus  quickly  blends 
with  our  psychical  life,  forming  the  most  cherished 
alliance   in    our   present   art   and   literature.     The 

198 


THE    NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

mere  sight  or  touch  of  a  weapon  no  longer  awakens  in 
us  the  desire  to  kill.  The  development  of  modern 
music  has  left  the  martial  note  far  behind.  The 
call  of  the  wild  is,  to  the  modern  spirit,  the  invita- 
tion to  an  ancient  kinship  with  Nature,  not  to  a  boar- 
hunt  or  a  bacchanalian  revel. 

We  do  not  return  to  Nature  following  Rousseau's 
suggestion  that  we  reduce  human  society  to  her 
simplicity.  To  our  psychical  interpretation  Nature 
is  infinitely  complex  and  to  a  corresponding  degree 
interesting  in  herself — in  her  own  vast  and  varied 
phenomena,  not  merely  as  disclosed  in  our  sensa- 
tions but  as  engaging  our  imaginative  faculty  for 
the  largest  comprehension  of  her  dynamic  harmony. 
If  the  truths  of  Nature  had  been  discerned  by  the 
ancient  Greek,  all  his  Nature-myths  would  have 
suffered  abortion.    Pan  would  never  have  been  bom. 

We  have  not  returned  to  Nature,  but  Nature  has 
been  restored  to  us.  And  in  the  same  sense  have 
been  restored  to  us  all  recorded  human  phenomena 
for  a  fresh  interpretation,  untrammelled  by  tradi- 
tional views. 

But  in  the  new  fiction  it  is  the  world  of  to-day  and 
the  mind  of  to-day  that  furnish  its  most  interesting 
material,  because  the  living  current  not  only  has  an 
immediacy  which  no  record  can  have,  for  the  writer's 
vision  of  the  truth  in  every  real  aspect,  but  is  itself 
the  essential  condition  of  intimacy  in  the  commu- 
nication. Thus  the  modernity  which  the  imagina- 
tion has  achieved,  in  the  contemporaneity  of  the 

199 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

novel  or  short  story,  is  a  distinctive  quality  of  our 
best  fiction,  and  is  not  a  matter  of  chronological 
classification,  which  is  usually  only  another  form 
of  sophistication. 

Problem  fiction  has  been  almost  entirely  banished 
from  the  scope  of  the  new  imaginative  literature, 
because,  to  our  psychical  sensibiHty,  life  does  not 
present  itself  as  a  problem  for  our  discussion,  much 
less  for  our  arbitrary  solution,  but  for  our  interpreta- 
tion. Only  artificial  conventions,  statutes,  policies, 
are  amenable  to  arbitrary  volition  and  therefore  to 
discussion.  We  see  the  difference  of  attitude  in 
Mrs.  Deland's  later  stories  as  contrasted  with  novels 
like  John  Ward,  Preacher,  which  she  was  giving  us 
twenty-five  years  ago. 

The  rapidity  of  movement  in  this  extremely  mod- 
ern psychical  development  is  remarkable.  How 
quickly  was  Darwin's  view,  based  on  the  observa- 
tion of  adult  organisms,  modified  and  cleared  up  by 
the  new  biology  based  on  the  study  of  the  cell !  With 
like  expedition  fiction  cleared  itself  from  that  first 
acharnement  of  its  new  realism  in  its  seizure  upon 
flesh  and  blood  reality — so  tempting  even  to  Steven- 
son— from  its  phantasmic  aesthetic  revels  and  from 
special  pleading  in  support  of  causes. 

With  the  retirement  of  imaginative  literature 
from  its  old  dependencies  and  alliances — from  aristo- 
cratic and  royal  patronage  and  a  corresponding  sub- 

200 


THE   NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

servience  and  adulation — much  was  gained  for  its 
independence  in  the  nineteenth  century.  The  retire- 
ment is  now  complete  from  every  field  of  strife,  even 
from  that  of  literary  competition.  With  contention 
satire  has  also  passed.  Polite  amenities  are  no  longer 
balanced  against  fierce  acrimonies.  The  writer  thus 
foregoes  a  striking  feature  which  has  been  many  an 
author's  claim  upon  the  notice  of  posterity.  How 
much  of  the  best  work  of  the  middle  of  the  last 
century  is  forgotten  because  it  did  not  bite  into  the 
tablet  of  sectional  or  sectarian  record! 

Recently,  in  Le  Figaro,  M.  Marcel  Prevost  called 
general  attention  to  a  significant  change  which  had 
occurred  within  a  few  years  in  the  polite  world's 
estimate  of  personal  beauty.  Suddenly  challenged 
by  the  statement,  the  polite  world  confessed  to  its 
truth — the  reign  of  beauty  had  passed.  Then  we 
reflected  that  this  change  had  been  for  some  time 
anticipated  in  the  art  of  painting  and  in  black-and- 
white  portraiture — a  psychical  distinction  or  charm 
had  displaced  merely  physical  beauty.  However 
we  may  account  for  it,  it  connotes  a  remarkable 
change  in  human  sensibility,  as  if  some  formerly 
glorified  element  of  aesthetic  satisfaction  had  sud- 
denly been  blotted  out  of  our  world.  Perfectly  con- 
sonant with  this  eclipse  of  beauty  is  the  avoidance, 
in  recent  fiction — to  mildly  designate  what  almost 
seems  a  positive  aversion — of  the  quality  of  good- 
ness.    Faultfulness  seems  more  real  and  interesting 

20I 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

than  the  constant  virtues,  perhaps  because  it  sug- 
gests the  possibility  of  redemption  and  so  has  a 
psychically  dynamic  value  which  appeals  to  the 
artist.  In  Miss  Sinclair's  The  Helpmate  is  suggested 
the  reverse  dynamic  movement,  since  the  reader  is 
all  along  impatiently  awaiting  Anne's  repentance  of 
her  goodness.  There  is  undoubtedly  a  new  sense 
of  life — of  its  flexibility,  of  the  values  incident  to 
even  its  fallibility.  The  parable  of  the  prodigal  son 
has  had  its  special  meaning  for  every  Christian  epoch 
— its  deepest  meaning  for  the  sympathetic  mood  of 
to-day,  one  not  to  be  apprehended  by  the  mediaeval 
mind,  which  reserved  the  aureole  for  sainthood  only. 
Some  new  psychical  sense  led  Lincoln  to  select  for 
individual  preference  the  hymn  beginning:  "Oh, 
why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ?" 

That  is  a  modern  note — not  merely  the  divestiture 
of  the  outward  insignia  of  pride,  but  to  bring  into 
contempt  the  pride  of  the  eye,  the  pride  of  learning, 
the  pride  of  possession,  the  pride  of  goodness  itself. 
Yes,  and  an  equally  false  pretension — the  pride  of 
humility. 

Is  not  this  a  new  humanity — a  new  psychical  era 
in  life,  faith,  art,  and  literature  ?  It  is  not  indicated 
merely  by  what  is  cast  off,  but  by  the  positive  love 
of  truth,  for  its  own  sake  and  for  the  elements  of 
value  and  interest  which  it  brings  to  us. 

Why  for  the  past  generation  have  we  not  had  in 
periodicals  the  kind  of  short  stories  of  romantic  love 

202 


THE   NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

which  abounded  sixty  years  ago— stories  in  which 
the  youth  and  the  maiden  occupied  the  reader's  in- 
terest from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  excluding  other 
characters  except  those  bearing  directly  upon  the 
love-affair  between  these  two,  favoring  or  opposing, 
and  admitting  no  feature  or  incident  which  did  not 
either  directly  heighten  the  romance  or  roughen  its 
course?     The   American   novel — after  the  days   of 
Irving  and   Cooper  and  before  the  recognition  of 
Hawthorne — was  usually  an  expansion  of  this  in- 
sipid banquet,  helped  out  by  equally  crude  religious 
or  moral  flavors.     In  accounting  for  the  disappear- 
ance of  this  kind  of  fiction  it  is  easy  to  say  that  the 
writers  grew  weary  of  immaturity.     But  the  change 
in  the  sensibility  of  both  the  writer  and  the  reader 
implied  something  deeper  than  this.     There  is  no 
aversion  and  never  will  be  to  young  romance.    Aucas- 
sin  and  Nicolette  will  please  the  fancy  till  our  planet 
is  senile.     We  see  them  through  a  distance,  which 
serves  the  same  purpose  as  the  element  lacking  in 
these  old-time  short  stories  might  have  served  if  it 
had  been  present — a  poetic  glamour  such  as  Harriet 
Prescott  Spofford  knew  how  to  use  in  her  earliest 
romances  and  has  not  forgotten  how  to  use  in  her 
latest,  or  a  quaint  simplicity  like  that  which  charmed 
us  in  Miss  Wilkins's  first  fiction — any  element,  in- 
deed, which  makes  romance  really  romantic  through 
an  appeal  to  the  imagination.     The  development  in 
this  direction  since  Mrs.  Spofford  and,  later,  Miss 
Wilkins  began  to  write  is  a  transformation  of  this 

203 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

kind  of  fiction  and  implies  a  corresponding  change 
in  the  sensibiUty  of  readers. 

In  a  sense  nearly  every  novel  is  a  love-story,  but 
the  best  of  them  we  are  not  likely  to  regard  in  that 
light,  because  the  romance  in  them  is  a  haunting 
implication,  as  it  is  in  life,  not  the  everywhere  ex- 
plicit argument  of  the  drama.  The  masters  of  our 
present-day  fiction,  by  making  everything  else  and 
every  other  interest  apparently  supreme,  intensify 
the  implicit  romance — Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  in  one 
way  and  Hewlett  in  another,  while  Conrad  often  dis- 
penses with  it  altogether — at  a  considerable  sacrifice 
of  popular  favor. 

The  more  mature  lover  has  won  a  preferred  in- 
terest just  because  it  is  possible  to  associate  with  the 
riper  period  features  of  psychical  value.  Marriage  is 
a  higher  state  of  development  than  courtship  and, 
wholly  apart  from  its  practical  problems,  leads  out 
into  the  world  of  real  life — into  its  varied  spiritual 
cuiTents  and  vicissitudes. 

Those  primary  relations  which  belonged  to  the 
oldest,  as  they  do  to  the  latest,  social  order  are,  in 
our  new  fiction,  transfigured,  but  only  reflect  the 
change  which  they  have  experienced  in  our  modern 
life.  All  our  affections  have  participated  in  the  psy- 
chical renascence.  We  have  become  unprecedented 
fathers  and  mothers,  brothers,  sisters,  and  friends, 
as  well  as  husbands  and  wives.  The  primary  pas- 
sions, and  especially  those  mentioned  for  deprecation 

204 


THE   NEW    PSYCHICAL   ERA 

in  the  Litany — envy,  hatred,  and  malice — are  ncj^li- 
gible  factors  except  in  degenerate  hfe  and  literature, 
and  we  wonder  how  they  could  ever  have  had  such 
prominence  in  old  plays  and  novels.  The  ancient 
villains  are  no  more  recognized  by  us  as  real  men 
and  women  than  the  haloed  saints.  This  new  sense 
of  life  implies  a  revolutionary  change  in  human  sen- 
sibility. 

From  the  extreme  modern  point  of  view  all  the 
literature  and  art  of  the  past  seems  to  belong  to  a 
museum  of  antiquities,  containing  precious  treasures, 
many  of  which  appeal  to  us  and  are  inspiring,  as  em- 
bodiments of  a  beauty  that  is  everlasting,  and  some 
of  which  we  cherish  in  our  affections.  For  the  most 
part,  our  w^onder  and  curiosity  are  compelled ;  we  are 
touched  with  reverent  passiveness  in  the  presence 
of  somewhat  alien  majesties  who  repel  our  near  ap- 
proach. Our  feeling  toward  them  is  quite  unlike 
that  with  which  we  regard  those  embodiments  of 
genius  which  respond  to  our  freshly  awakened  sensi- 
bility, closing  in  with  us  at  this  immediate  moment 
and  leading  us  on  imperatively  and  with  absorbing 
interest  to  the  next. 

Even  our  favorite  old  authors  whom  we  would  fain 
carry  about  with  us  in  our  pockets  rather  obstinately 
refuse  domestication.  We  exclaim,  "  Dear  old  Elia !" 
and,  "Dear  old  Thackeray  I"  but,  however  affection- 
ately we  approach  them,  we  find  that  their  faces  are 
turned  away  from  us,  and  even  from  the  readers  of 

205 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

their  own  time.  Lamb's  regard  is  mainly  toward 
Elizabethan  times  and  Thackeray's  toward  the 
eighteenth  century,  which  he  knew  so  well  and  so 
loyally  loved — both  of  them  flatly  rejecting  even 
comparative  modernity.  The  less  ingratiating  of 
the  past  worthies  of  literature  are  sought  by  us  in 
their  remote  heights ;  they  are  a  part  of  our  store  of 
intellectual  delights  or  necessary  to  our  culture. 
We  read  them  in  our  youth  and,  more  or  less  pas- 
sively, assented  to  their  immortality,  and  now — we 
read  them  when  we  have  the  time ;  present  satisfac- 
tions are  more  sufficing. 

But  the  young  of  to-day  who  have  the  time — or 
should  have  it,  if  athletic  contests  and  the  training 
for  them  are  not  too  exacting — are  they  reading  the 
old  authors  beyond  what  is  required  of  them  in  the 
schools?  We  have  a  hopeful  assurance  of  the  con- 
tinuity of  culture.  If  it  is  not  to  be  through  the 
graduates  of  our  universities,  then  it  will  be,  as  in 
the  case  of  Curtis  and  Howells,  through  young  men, 
in  every  part  of  the  country,  whose  thirst  for  the 
new  knowledge  will  insure  also  new  interpretations 
of  the  past,  in  history,  philosophy,  and  criticism. 
That  which  has  served  its  time  and  passed  away,  for 
all  its  inadequacies,  has  in  its  death  yielded  its  final 
service  for  our  nutrition.  All  our  great  learning  is 
from  the  study  of  these  dissolutions. 

Childhood  recapitulates  past  stages  of  human 
evolution;  its  early  sensibility  demands  old  myths 

206 


THE  NEW   PSYCHICAL   ERA 

and  fairy  talcs,  and  otherwise  in  its  Vjehalf  we  make 
large  ravages  upon  what  we  have  shelved,  or  laid 
away  in  our  museum  of  antiquities.  This  is  a  nat- 
ural preparation  for  the  kind  of  culture  which  shall 
recognize  what  is  of  eternal  excellence  in  the  imag- 
inative creations  of  the  past  and,  at  the  time  when 
childish  things  are  put  away,  shall  most  intelligently 
repudiate  old  and  outworn  fashions  and  symbols. 
We  are  all,  indeed,  "children  of  larger  growth,"  but 
the  larger  growth  brings  with  it  a  rational  discrimina- 
tion, so  that  even  when,  by  way  of  holiday  amuse- 
ment, we  don  an  older  and  more  picturesque  vesture 
and  play  antiques,  we  clearly  understand  ourselves 
and  the  whimsical  nature  of  our  relaxation. 

What  we  seem  most  of  all  to  have  repudiated  in 
our  new  literature  has  really  become  the  most  es- 
sential part  of  it.  The  poetry  we  seem  to  have 
spurned  has  its  renascence  in  imaginative  prose. 
Every  new  scepticism,  every  new  insistence  upon 
reality,  creates  fresh  zest  and  hospitality  for  faith 
and  romance.  It  is  only  some  old  fashions  of  these 
that  are  cast  off.  So  our  new  life  and  literature  are 
animated  by  the  spirit  which  created  the  impressive 
spectacle  and  processional  of  the  past,  though  the 
outward  fashions  and  phases  of  these  have  vanished. 

While  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  literature 
which  is  being  produced,  and  which  in  a  general  way 
is  styled  imaginative,  belongs  to  the  old  rather  than 
to  the  new,  and  perpetuates  the  old  fashions,  yet  it 

207 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

is  in  many  ways  responsive  to  the  leading  tendency 
of  our  time,  and  is  far  in  advance  of  all  but  the  very 
best  of  the  preceding  generation. 

When  we  regard  any  distinctive  human  period  at 
its  prime — the  age  of  Pericles,  of  Augustus,  of  Eliza- 
beth, of  Anne,  of  Victoria — we  discover  psychical 
lineaments  that  suggest  comparative  modernity,  but, 
with  closer  scrutiny  pursuing  the  comparison,  we 
should  see  how  far  each  of  these  periods  falls  short  of 
the  modernity  we  know — in  its  criticism,  its  scep- 
ticism, what  it  called  its  common-sense,  its  concep- 
tion of  altruism,  its  whole  attitude  toward  life  and 
the  world. 

Within  the  memory  of  men  who  have  reached  the 
age  of  fifty  the  human  spirit  has  found  its  true  cen- 
tre of  active  development  and  of  interpretation — its 
real  modernity,  which  does  not  mean  the  deprecia- 
tion of  the  past,  but  a  deeper  and  truer  appreciation, 
nor  any  break  in  the  continuity  of  culture,  which  is 
rather  led  into  fresher  and  more  fertile  fields  of  ex- 
pansion. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE     FIRST     REALISM 

GEORGE  ELIOT  somewhere  says  that  the 
satisfaction  of  personal  grief  by  frequenta- 
tion  of  the  graves  of  those  we  have  lost  be- 
trays a  lack  of  imagination.  We  might  at  first  be 
inclined  to  reply  that  it  is  not  a  matter  of  the  im- 
agination, but  of  the  affections ;  that  the  more  poig- 
nant the  sorrow,  the  more  it  fixes  upon  particular 
things  which  revive  familiar  associations.  The  pa- 
thetically vivid  reminiscence  is  a  resurrection  of  an 
embodied  presence,  where  there  seemed  such  absence, 
so  far  serving  the  office  of  imagination.  But  sepul- 
ture and  everything  pertaining  to  it  emphasizes  ab- 
sence, setting  a  seal  upon  it,  leaving  no  way  open  to 
the  imagination. 

At  least  this  is  the  case  arising  from  the  attitude 
of  our  extreme  modern  sensibility  toward  the  fu- 
nereal. There  was  a  time  when  the  article  of  death 
was  read  differently;  it  did  not  convey  the  idea  of 
such  absolute  separation  of  the  soul  from  earthly 
associations  or  even  from  its  earthly  tenement.  The 
attentions  of  surviving  friends  were  supposed  to  be 

209 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

really  serviceable;  above  all,  certain  rites  concerned 
with  either  the  careful  preservation  of  the  body,  as 
in  Egypt,  or,  as  in  Hellenic  times,  its  swift  crema- 
tion. The  passing  soul  was  conceived  to  be  a  wan- 
derer, as  in  sleep,  only  now  in  a  deeper  sleep  —  a 
wanderer  who  might  linger  or  possibly  return,  who 
indeed  could  not  quite  get  away  but  by  the  pious 
help  of  those  he  had  left  behind,  and  was  not  even 
then  safe  from  necromancy. 

Along  with  this  ancient  conception  there  was  some 
room  for  the  imagination.  The  character  of  Hermes, 
in  his  oldest  guise  as  psychopompos,  or  leader  of  these 
properly  absolved  wandering  souls,  was  one  of  the 
creations  of  this  imagination.  Another  was  the 
Court  of  Judgment.  The  visits  of  Ishtar  and  of 
mortal  heroes  like  Odysseus  and  vEneas  to  the  dusky 
subterranean  asylum  of  the  Shades,  and  the  seizure 
of  Persephone,  furnished  weirdly  imaginative  themes 
for  the  old  poets.     The  way  was  thus  laid  for  Dante. 

But  in  the  very  earliest  times  there  were  no  such 
imaginative  creations.  Mythology  was  of  later  date. 
If  we  could  go  back  to  the  period  when  man  created 
a  language  and  before  that  language  passed  into  its 
secondary  meanings,  we  should  confront  the  first 
realism,  which  was  one  with  the  first  naturalism. 
Humanity  was  nearer  to  Nature,  in  the  sense  of  being 
next  to  it,  of  being  interfused  with  it,  than  it  has 
been  at  any  later  stage  of  development.  Thought 
was  immediately  next  the  thing,  and  the  word  bind- 
ing them  together  involved  the  least  possible  inter- 

210 


THE   FIRST    REALISM 

ference  of  a  notional  concept.  Imagination  was,  as 
neady  as,  in  man,  it  is  possible  for  it  to  be,  direct 
realization — direct  and  inevitable  as  any  operation 
in  Nature.  It  was  realization  on  its  lowest  level, 
but  at  the  same  time  the  most  complete.  Sequences 
thus  close,  of  thought,  word,  and  thing,  without  re- 
flective interval,  had  the  fatefulness  of  hypnotic 
suggestion. 

In  this  immediate  embodiment,  or  realization, 
the  imagination  was  creative,  within  its  narrow 
limitations.  There  was  no  free  intelligence  outside 
of  such  imaginative  realization,  which  involved  only 
natural  selection.  Knowledge  was  possible  only  in 
genetic  lines,  was  confined  to  that  which  was  native 
or  akin. 

Of  course  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  man  as 
possessed  of  articulate  speech  and  at  the  same  time 
without  some  measure  of  conscious  ratiocination, 
far  above  that  in  any  other  species  of  animal;  but 
progress  in  this  direction  was  slow,  and  we  may  be 
permitted  to  regard  it  in  its  earliest  stage,  the  twilight 
of  the  mind.  The  consideration  of  human  imagina- 
tion in  this  period  is  interesting,  and  enables  us  better 
to  comprehend  it  at  its  opposite  extreme  in  the 
realism  of  to-day. 

In  this  earliest  period  the  feeling  of  reality  was  a 

near  sense  of  life — so  near  that,  as  we  have  said,  it 

brought  all  of  man's  relations  to  his  kind  and  to  the 

world  he  knew  within  the  bonds  of  kinship.     We 

15  211 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

know,  in  our  time,  to  what  degree  and  extent  Nature 
holds  us  in  her  web  through  elemental  instincts,  and 
how  much  of  our  life,  in  its  joys  and  sorrows  and 
labors,  depends  upon  the  associations  growing  out 
of  this  natural  bondage ;  but  it  is  not  easy  for  us  to 
understand  the  ancient  sacrament  of  kinship  which 
was  the  ground  of  the  worship  of  ancestors. 

In  this  estate  of  humanity  we  could  not  say  that 
death  was  apotheosis — that  would  imply  a  discrimi- 
nation between  humanity  and  divinity  which  did  not 
exist — but  it  was  regarded  not  as  a  diminution  but 
an  accession  of  power.  It  afforded  the  culminating 
moment  of  such  tension  as  was  then  possible  to  the 
imagination.  The  last  sleep  was  next  to  a  mystery 
very  different  from  that  imagined  by  us,  which 
dwells  afar,  beyond  an  impenetrable  barrier.  There 
was  no  leap  for  that  ancient  imagination  to  take; 
the  mystery  resided  in  a  near  presence,  as  near  as 
the  friendly  darkness  of  night,  which  was  now  rein- 
forced with  new  helpfulness  for  the  living. 

Naturally  there  was  concern  as  to  where  the 
sleeper  was  laid — the  place  of  contact  with  so  com- 
fortable a  mystery,  a  shrine,  therefore,  for  visitation, 
with  no  vain  intent.  The  dead  did  not  pass  but  by 
a  step ;  they  made  a  populous  divinely  himian  neigh- 
borhood. Every  living  thing  which  sprang  from 
Earth's  treasury  of  darkness — tree,  plant,  or  flower 
— was  associated  with  them,  as  if  owing  germinance 
to  their  potence,  far  more  intimately  than  the  cro- 
cuses coming  up  in  the  spring  were  in  De  Quin- 

212 


THE   FIRST   REALISM 

cey's    mind   with   the   thought   of  his   little  dead 
sister. 

There  was  no  lack  of  imagination  in  this  regard 
for  the  dead,  which  had  such  reality,  with  no  fune- 
real gloss,  a  backward  and  downward  look,  affiliat- 
ing more  with  darkness  than  with  light.  It  had  its 
compensations,  and  we  see  from  what  we  know  of  it 
that  it  was  love  and  not  fear  that  made  the  first 
gods.  But  it  was  a  wingless  imagination,  limited  by 
a  rigidly  provincial  sense  of  neighborhood,  yet  with 
something  of  the  sureness  of  instinct,  as  well  as  of  its 
blindness,  in  its  close  procedure. 

When  we  pass  beyond  this  primitive  stage  we 
still  find  the  imagination  concerning  the  dead  closely 
following  the  course  of  the  human  evolution.  When 
the  tribal  isolation  is  broken  up  and  the  romance 
of  human  wandering  commences,  then  the  dead 
become  wanderers;  the  builders  of  cities  give  the 
vagrant  souls  a  fixed  abode  in  the  underworld,  with 
such  discriminations  and  judgments  as  are  indicated 
in  the  penal  codes  of  civilized  communities,  and  a 
monarchy  on  earth  suggests  a  King  and  Queen  of 
Hades.  The  old  idea  of  immense  treasure  was  still 
associated  with  the  dusky  underworld,  whence  our 
term  "plutocracy."  The  Plutonian  realm  was  even 
more  distinguished  for  its  vast  population  than  for  its 
resources.  But  the  strange  feature  which  arrests 
our  attention  in  the  poetic  representations,  from 
Homer  to  Dante,  is  the  weakness  and  insignificance 

213 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

of  this  population,  which  had  waned  from  the  di- 
vine stature  accorded  them  by  the  primitive  imag- 
ination to  the  mere  shadows  of  their  earthly  selves, 
becoming  a  throng  of  bloodless,  melancholy  ghosts. 
Herein  we  see  reflected  the  great  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  human  imagination  itself,  after 
its  divorce  from  primitive  naturalism.  Its  integ- 
rity had  been  broken.  The  despotically  real  earth- 
thought  had  given  place  to  a  complex  and  wavering 
world  -  thought,  prismatically  brilliant  but  unreal. 
The  symbol  interrupted  the  close  sequence  of  the 
thought  and  the  thing,  and  the  living  word  which 
had  been  the  bond  of  the  sequence  passed  into  its 
secondary  meaning  or  shadowy  concept.  What  won- 
der that  death  should  be  supposed  to  work  the  same 
change  that  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  life  —  the 
transformation  of  realities  into  phantoms  ?  In  either 
case,  the  change  was  not  sudden,  but  the  effect  of 
slow  development  through  centuries. 

With  the  loosening  of  the  naturalistic  bond — so 
tenacious  at  all  times  and  in  all  circumstances — 
man  entered  upon  his  proper  psychical  destiny,  with 
the  free  imaginative  vision  and  faculty  which  made 
art,  philosophy,  literature,  and  the  higher  life  pos- 
sible, but  he  reached  these  heights  only  after  long 
bondage  to  a  symbolism  only  a  step  removed  from 
the  immediate  despotism  of  natural  instincts,  and 
to  a  rigid  social  conventionalism.  The  romantic 
awakening,  the  disintegration  and  emancipation,  is 

214 


THE   FIRST   REALISM 

first  historically  apparent  in  migratory  peoples, 
lovers  of  the  sea,  like  the  Phoenician,  who  gave  the 
world  letters,  and  the  Ionic  Greek,  who  gave  it  art. 
The  world  sense  of  the  Heroic  Age,  not  at  all  re- 
flective, but  aesthetic,  and  thrilling  with  free  and 
joyous  life,  furnishes  a  natural  explanation  of  the 
prevailing  fancy  as  to  the  desolate  estate  of  those  in 
whom  the  pulse  of  this  life  had  been  stilled.  Thus 
Homer  expresses  it,  when  he  makes  the  shade  of  Achil- 
les say  to  Odysseus  that  he  would  rather  be  a  slave  in 
the  upper  light  and  air  than  King  of  the  Underworld. 

Evidently,  in  the  Hellenic  view  at  least,  the  pres- 
ent world  had  blurred  the  old  backward  regard.  Men 
had  come  to  have  reliance  upon  their  own  lluminat- 
ed  intelligence,  independently  of  ancestral  reinforce- 
ment by  way  of  darkness. 

The  significant  note  of  the  primitive  realism  was 
the  sense  of  a  kinship  potent  in  life  and  still  more 
potent  in  death.  We  see  a  survival  of  this  in  the 
Hebrew  race  before  the  Dispersion,  a  people  shrink- 
ing inland  from  the  dreaded  sea,  repudiating  the 
myth,  the  symbol,  the  idol,  the  image  of  anything, 
and  whose  language  was  cut  down  to  its  roots.  For 
a  man  to  die  was  to  be  "gathered  to  his  fathers." 
Paradise  was  Abraham's  bosom.  In  the  story  of 
Joseph  and  his  brethren  we  have  the  simplest  and 
strongest  embodiment  of  the  sentiment  of  kinship. 

What  we  have  called  the  provincial  imagination, 
because  of  its  confinement  to  an  immediately  near 

215 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

realization,  within  limits  fixed  by  elemental  instinct 
and  passion,  in  the  Hellenic  type  of  development 
escaped  these  narrow  bonds,  projecting  mythological 
impersonation  and  legend  and,  later,  the  objective 
embodiment  of  aesthetic  sensibility  in  poetry  and  in 
all  forms  of  representative  art.  But  in  all  this  de- 
tachment from  Nature  we  note  the  lingering  domina- 
tion of  the  older  motives,  loosened  from  the  ancient 
tyranny  and  softly  touched  with  beauty.  In  my- 
thology, the  earth  mother,  Demeter,  held  her  legen- 
dary place,  and  her  sacred  mysteries  were  still  in- 
violate. The  sombre  presences  of  the  underworld — 
the  Eumenides,  Pluto,  Persephone,  Hermes,  and 
the  rest — continued  to  exercise  their  majestic  func- 
tions. The  prominence  given  to  the  Promethean 
myth  by  .^schylus  and,  by  all  the  Greek  dramatists 
in  tragedy,  to  human  destiny  as  working  in  the 
dark  lines  of  natural  relationships,  shows,  in  the 
brightest  era  of  Greek  art,  the  survival  of  feelings 
nearly  allied  to  the  primitive  naturalism.  Never- 
theless, the  cult  of  Athene,  who  of  all  divine  per- 
sonages was  most  completely  dissociated  from  the 
occult  influences  of  Nature,  gained  ground,  and  was 
the  inspiration  of  new  humanities. 

How  inveterate  those  occult  influences  were  down 
to  the  thirteenth  century  of  the  Christian  era  is  in- 
dicated by  the  strong  hold  which,  in  that  second 
twilight  of  the  mind,  the  black  art  of  magic  gained 
upon  the  human  imagination,  reviving  necroman- 
tic enchantments  and  maintaining  the  ancient  con- 

216 


THE  FIRST   REALISM 

ception  of  an  inferno,  in  which,  however,  another 
dynasty  had  supplanted  the  Plutonian.  The  prev- 
alent belief  in  astrology  rested  upon  the  implication 
that  man's  life  was  but  a  part  of  the  web  of  a  uni- 
versal destiny,  and  was  determined  by  the  stars 
under  which  he  happened  to  be  born.  The  diver- 
gence— a  noticeable  one — from  the  old  naturalism 
was  in  the  substitution  of  celestial  influences,  as- 
sociated with  luminaries,  for  those  which  were  ter- 
restrial and  which  worked  in  the  darkness.  Nearly 
allied  to  this  belief  in  magic  and  much  more  closely 
allied  to  the  provincialism  of  the  primitive  imagina- 
tion was  the  mediaeval  faith  in  reliquary  miracles, 
with  this  notable  distinction :  that  their  effectiveness 
was  due  to  sainthood.  At  the  very  earliest  stage 
of  Christian  belief,  heaven,  never  before  accessible 
to  men,  save  by  special  translation,  as  in  the  cases 
of  Moses  and  Elijah,  was  "opened  to  all  believers." 
This  remote  separation  of  the  saints  from  those  ever- 
lastingly doomed,  or  temporarily  subjected  to  pur- 
gatorial flames,  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  earlier 
location  of  paradise,  into  which  Dives,  in  torment, 
could  look  and  have  speech  with  Lazarus.  Still 
earlier  there  was  not  this  separation ;  all  went  to  one 
place.  To  the  primitive  imagination  the  idea  of  the 
neighborhood  of  departed  kindred  seems  to  have  pre- 
cluded that  of  any  distinct  abode  of  the  dead. 

In  mediaeval  pilgrimages  to  shrines  and  holy  places, 
in  the  crusades  for  the  recovery  of  the  Holy  Sepul- 

217 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

chre,  and  in  knightly  quests  for  the  Holy  Grail,  there 
was  an  enthusiasm  not  only  in  itself  romantic,  but 
one  that,  as  in  ancient  visits  to  the  Delphic  Oracle, 
helped  to  develop  a  cosmopolitan  or  world  sense 
which  would  finally  dissipate  the  essentially  provin- 
cial regard  for  any  shrine  or  oracle.  The  mediaeval 
world  sense  of  politics,  as  distinguished  from  the 
modern  national  sense,  in  its  very  cosmopolitanism, 
and  in  the  favoring  atmosphere  which  it  created  for 
the  development  of  art  and  the  humanities,  helped 
to  make  the  Renaissance  inevitable  and  effective. 

The  first  realism  was,  on  its  purely  naturalistic 
plane  and  within  its  insulated  channels,  intensely 
vital,  as  sure  and  relentlessly  direct  as  instinct,  as 
Nature  herself.  The  imagination  shaping  its  course 
had  the  values  of  its  integrity — its  defects  were  in  its 
limitations,  precluding  the  possibilities  of  art  and  of 
the  higher  humanity.  Our  departures  from  this 
primeval  integrity  have  made  human  history — the 
record  of  human  strength  and  weakness.  Fallibility, 
not,  as  in  instinctive  procedure,  mere  limitation  of 
faculty  and  vision,  but  positive  vacillation  and 
failure,  has  attended  every  step  as  the  indispensable 
condition  of  advance.  The  objective  realization  of 
beauty  in  art  stands  out  more  firmly  than  anything 
else  in  the  retrospect;  but  the  realization  of  truth, 
in  politics,  literature,  philosophy,  and  dogma,  brings 
into  view  a  long  procession  of  masquerading  phan- 
toms— some  of  them  fixed  in  ghastly  permanence, 

9iS 


THE   FIRST   REALISM 

while  others  appear  and  vanish,  showing  as  much 
worth  in  their  faUing  as  in  their  emergence.  One  set 
of  symbols  is  forever  displaced  by  another,  and  there 
is  a  distinct  value  in  the  expedition  of  succession. 

To  loiter  with  the  old  symbol,  to  cherish  the  life- 
less token,  like  lingering  at  the  grave  of  one  who  is 
not  there  but  has  arisen,  is  to  put  mere  actualities 
in  the  place  of  realities.  The  actuahty  was  one  with 
the  reality  in  the  primitive  naturalism ;  to  us  it  is,  or 
should  be,  a  trivial  accident.  To  cherish  the  pen 
which  belonged  to  a  great  writer  or  with  which  an 
important  document  was  signed,  the  sword  of  an 
eminent  warrior,  or  the  ship  which  he  led  to  a  de- 
cisive victory,  the  room  in  which  a  poet  was  born  or 
happened  to  die,  or  any  other  relic,  betrays  a  lack 
of  the  historic  sense  as  well  as  of  imagination. 

The  symbol  which  has  played  so  important  a  part 
in  thought  and  art  is  something  more  than  a  relic  or 
token,  something  to  be  justly  interpreted  in  its  set 
time  and  place  and  for  its  relative  value.  Words 
themselves  are  symbols,  directly  in  their  origin,  and 
with  indirect  and  notional  meanings  in  their  second- 
ary use ;  and  it  is  in  these  notional  meanings  that  we 
must  beware  of  their  phantasmal  tyranny.  So  any 
symbol  may  have  its  despotic  misleading  as  well  as 
its  helpful  leading.  It  is  the  ready  tool  at  once  of 
true  wisdom  and  of  false  sophistry.  Modern  science 
has  by  a  jealous  caution  in  its  own  field  led  the  way 
to  a  new  realism  in  which  the  imagination  after  long 
bewilderment  has  found  its  true  centre  of  harmony 

219 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

with  the  natural  and  human  world,  a  world  which — 
if  we  may  follow  to  the  end  the  line  of  thought  with 
which  we  set  out— no  longer  harbors  ghosts  or  ghost- 
ly trivialities. 

It  is  the  world  sense,  uplifted  and  illuminated, 
which  has  triumphed  over  the  unreal  phantoms  of 
the  mind  and  over  the  Powers  of  the  Air  and  of 
Darkness,  embodying  thus  a  free  Christendom  fol- 
lowing the  spirit  of  the  Master.  The  near  sense  of 
life  is  realized  in  a  brotherhood  not  confined  within 
the  bonds  of  natural  kinship,  as  we  hear  the  Master 
ask :  "  Who  are  my  brethren  ?" 

Rousseau  and  Nietzsche  were  bewildering  proph- 
ets, falling  far  short  of  this  new  realism.  What 
shall  be  said  of  those  critics  who  would  call  our  writers 
of  fiction  from  their  world  of  psychical  realities  back 
to  a  masterful  handling  of  elemental  passions  ?  Nat- 
ural relationships  have  inspired  some  of  our  finest 
fiction,  treating  of  home  and  homely  things.  These 
relationships  have  themselves  been  psychically  up- 
lifted and  refined  above  the  elemental  plane.  Our 
new  humanities  are  developed  in  that  superstructure. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE     WORLD     SENSE 

OUR  culture  is,  in  good  part,  the  appreciation 
I  of  the  new  reaHsm,  in  which  Hfe  is  concerned 
even  more  than  art,  philosophy,  and  Htera- 
ture.  The  world  sense  of  the  imagination,  as  distin- 
guished from  its  old  earth-bound  or  provincial  sense, 
has  not  only  created  this  realism,  but  has  liberalized 
culture.  Often,  it  is  true,  realism  is  spoken  of  as  if 
it  were  confined  to  the  near  view  of  life  and  things, 
as  if,  indeed,  it  were  simply  the  result  of  close  obser- 
vation and  of  a  feeling  for  local  color.  It  does  very 
distinctly  involve  a  near  sense  of  life,  the  feeling  of 
neighborhood  which  makes  it  intimacy,  the  genuine- 
ly altrurian  miracle  of  knowing  a  thing  by  becoming 
it;  but  we  lose  sight  of  its  chief  distinction  if  we 
ignore  the  light  of  its  seeing  and  the  charm  of  its 
feeling  due  to  the  sense  and  knowledge  of  far  away 
things — the  cosmopolitanism  which  makes  it  always 
widely  and  wisely  human. 

That  ancient  collocation  in  the  Prayer-book 
phrase,  of  "the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,"  no 
longer  holds.     We  have  a  different  world  now,  which 

221 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

has  conquered  the  other  members  of  that  partner- 
ship, or  at  least  put  them  on  their  good  behavior. 
If  not  completely  renovated,  it  is  so  far  transformed 
in  its  main  currents  that  we  would  share  its  fortunes, 
renouncing  only  its  pomps  and  vanities,  as  required 
by  our  baptismal  vows.  There  was,  indeed,  much 
to  renounce — much  of  vanity,  pretence,  and  false- 
hood; but  the  world  itself  has  done  a  good  deal  of 
the  renunciation  for  us,  not  only  helping  us  in  the 
divestiture,  but  making  it  difficult  for  us  to  revive 
the  old  worldly  fashions  without  seeming  unworthy 
or  ridiculous,  and  our  present  concern  is  lest  we 
be  not  worldly  enough,  after  the  new  fashion,  with 
which  the  best  of  us  find  it  hard  to  keep  pace;  and 
this  concern  has  developed  a  new  conscience  in  us. 

Special  organizations  do  not  help  us  to  apprehend 
or  express  the  world  spirit  of  to-day.  They  may 
have  legitimate  objects  not  otherwise  attainable; 
but  every  arbitrary  system  has  its  vice,  its  per- 
version and  limitation  of  truth,  its  peculiar  shib- 
boleth. There  is  more  of  comprehendingly  sym- 
pathetic socialism  outside  of  socialistic  organizations 
than  there  is  in  them.  In  England  and  America 
a  political  sentiment  which  is  not  rigidly  partisan 
determines  the  critical  issues  of  politics,  having  a 
quality  which  lifts  it  above  the  abuses  incidental  to 
party  organization.  The  growth  of  humanism,  while 
it  owes  much  to  institutions  which  have  had  spon- 
taneous origin  and  development  and  has  its  expres- 

222 


THE   WORLD   SENSE 

sion  largely  through  these,  is  quite  independent  of 
all  special  organizations  deliberately  planned  and 
conducted  and  distinctively  labelled.  The  world 
spirit  has  moved  where  it  listed,  marshalling  all 
human  elements — even  the  passions  of  men,  in  the 
mass,  and  individual  ambition — for  its  own  ultimate 
issues.  The  old  fashions  it  has  outworn  were  its 
garb  for  their  season  of  service. 

Custom  has  always  in  its  origin  expressed  as  much 
of  the  truth  of  life  as  human  sensibility  could  at  the 
time  apprehend,  and  thus  became  the  ground  of  in- 
stitutions. Isolation  tended  to  preserve  in  crys- 
talline stability  all  the  outward  forms  and  fashions 
which  at  once  registered  the  measure  of  intelligence 
and  arrested  its  growth.  War,  which  to-day  the 
world  sense  justly  denounces,  was  the  vehicle  of 
change  and  progressive  movement,  and  moreover, 
in  its  natural  course,  while  beginning  in  repulsion, 
ultimately  widened  the  scope  of  attractions  and  of 
the  higher  amenities.  It  was  the  precursor  of  com- 
merce. The  harvests  of  peace  were  sown  in  blood; 
and  the  shedding  of  blood  in  contention  was  followed 
by  the  blending  of  the  blood  of  the  contestants  for 
broader  kinship.  The  growth  of  the  humanities  was 
an  illogical  drift,  through  organized  associations 
that  were  reconciled  antagonisms,  harmonies  from 
the  resolution  of  discords. 

The  pax  Romana — the  consummation  of  centuries 
of  warfare — was  not  allowed  to  corrupt  the  world ; 

223 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

there  were  outlying  barbarians  to  harass,  to  provoke 
fresh  conflicts — enough  of  them  in  Europe  alone  to 
finally  conquer  the  stablest  of  empires  and  to  be  in 
turn  conquered  by  its  old  law  and  its  new  faith, 
whence  another  blend  of  races  and,  after  a  period  of 
fierce  and  intimate  fusion,  another  leap  in  the  growth 
of  the  humanities — that  is,  in  the  growth  of  the  world 
sense.  The  wonderful  achievements  of  the  thirteenth 
century  in  the  fine  arts  and  the  technical ;  in  educa- 
tion— through  the  establishment  of  great  universities 
— in  political  organization,  as  manifest  in  the  Italian 
cities  and  in  the  rise  of  the  British  Parliament  and 
the  signing  of  Magna  Charta;  and  in  literature,  as 
exemplified  in  the  poetry  of  Dante  and  in  the  shap- 
ing of  the  great  national  epics,  the  Cid,  the  Arthur 
Legends,  and  the  Nibelungenlied,  show  what  were 
the  possibilities  of  the  human  spirit  even  in  the 
Middle  Ages  and  at  a  time  when  the  greater  part  of 
Europe  was  in  the  clutch  of  the  Tatar.  Dr.  James 
J.  Walsh  has  made  a  striking  array  of  these  achieve- 
ments in  his  recent  book,  The  Thirteenth,  Greatest  of 
Centuries. 

But  really  the  most  remarkable  distinction  of  that 
century  was  the  contest  between  Pope  and  Em- 
peror for  the  temporal  sovereignty  of  the  Christian 
world.  The  significant  fact,  irrespective  of  the 
merits  of  the  conflict,  is  that  the  culmination  had 
been  reached  of  that  order  of  world  politics  in  which 
the  people  had  no  voice  or  responsibility.  All  con- 
flicts, for  any  merit  there  might  be  in  them  or  in 

224 


THE   WORLD   SENSE 

their  issues,  awaited  a  more  profound  development 
of  the  world  sense  in  its  peaceful  evolution. 

The  substitution  of  national  for  world  politics  in 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  though  it 
restricted  and  intensified  patriotism,  was  not  a  re- 
version to  isolated  provincialism.  Like  the  growing 
tendency  to  individualism,  it  indicated  a  deeper 
and  more  pervasive  world  sense;  but  there  were 
difficulties  which  this  sense  had  to  meet  and  over- 
come— such  as  class  privilege  and  prejudice  and  the 
narrowness  of  sectarianism  in  religion. 

It  is  only  within  a  generation  that  we  have  had 
that  clarified  world  sense  of  which  Matthew  Arnold 
was  a  true  apostle,  and  against  which  no  Philistinism 
can  prevail.  Arnold  perhaps  laid  too  much  stress 
upon  the  healing  virtues  of  conformity;  whereas  in 
the  toleration  of  dissent  is  the  surer  path  to  better 
agreement.  It  is  the  progress  of  science  which  has 
really  led  the  way  to  a  culture  the  full  meaning  and 
value  of  which  is  in  seeing  things  as  they  really  are, 
or  at  least  above  all  things  to  desire  such  vision. 
Science,  in  its  largest  sense,  the  knowledge  of  real 
procedure  in  natural  and  human  phenomena,  has 
not  only  given  a  firm  basis  to  our  contemporary 
realism  in  historical  interpretation,  creative  criticism, 
and  imaginative  literature,  but  has  suggestively  de- 
termined its  method.  It  has  extended  the  limits  of 
human  thought  beyond  its  mundane  scope,  so  that 
the  world  sense  has  widened  into  a  cosmic  sense,  in- 

225 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

eluding  the  feeling  of  the  unity  of  all  life  and  the 
recognition  of  universal  kinship,  thus  making  pro- 
vincialism forever  impossible  by  the  destruction  of 
its  "  hole  and  corner"  refuges  and  of  the  notions  and 
fancies  bred  in  these.  This  enlargement  of  the  im- 
agination, giving  it  the  freedom  of  the  universe,  is 
its  full  emancipation. 

But,  in  the  field  of  art  and  literature,  the  world 
sense  of  realism,  the  true  feeling  of  Nature  and 
humanity,  is  sufficient  without  availing  of  those 
wonderful  disclosures  which  are  strictly  scientific, 
and  which  by  themselves  more  than  compensate  in 
psychical  value  and  interest  for  the  fabulous  wonders 
they  have  displaced.  The  scientific  specialist  has 
often  himself  narrowed  and  minified  the  truth  in  his 
own  department  of  investigation  by  a  kind  of  provin- 
cialism incident  to  specialization,  or  by  an  atrophy 
of  vision,  making  him  blind  to  a  living  Nature  and  to 
the  miracle  of  a  continuous  creation,  and  thus  shut- 
ting him  into  a  mechanical  universe.  Imagination, 
in  literature,  owing  much  to  the  clarified  atmosphere 
of  the  world  prepared  for  it  by  modern  science,  yet 
takes  its  own  open  way,  always  in  contact  with  the 
main  currents  of  human  life. 

It  is  especially  fortunate — but  only  recently  so — 
in  its  freedom  from  alliances  with  special  causes  and 
therefore  from  polemics  of  every  sort.  As,  in  our 
new  and  redeemed  world,  war  is  no  longer  an  organ 
of  movement,  but,  outside  of  partially  civilized  races, 

226 


THE   WORLD   SENSE 

an  anachronism,  so  from  imaginative  literature  all 
contentions  are  excluded,  relegated  to  their  peace- 
ful resolution  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  This 
kind  of  literature  takes  no  label.  It  is  not  specially 
socialistic,  democratic,  didactic,  or  even  realistic. 
Thus  it  entirely  escapes  provincialism. 

The  world  sense  is  a  very  different  thing  from 
what  is  called  common-sense,  which,  in  its  genesis 
and  in  its  obstinate  survivals  of  old  notions  and 
habits,  is  essentially  provincial.  We  are  not  con- 
sidering the  reactionary  eddies,  or  even  the  flood- 
tides,  of  Philistinism,  but  the  main  current  of  hu- 
man thought  and  feeling  which  has  already  become 
dominant,  to  which  every  critical  change  in  history 
has  been  tributary,  and  of  which  all  changes  to  come 
will  be  the  reassuring  triumphs. 

The  old  order  of  life  and  literature  passed  more 
than  a  century  ago,  and  now  its  vestiges  have  dis- 
appeared —  all  its  masks,  heroic,  dramatic,  and 
rhetorical;  behind  which  lurked  old  stock  notions, 
with  impressive  suggestions  of  majesty,  appealing 
to  their  counterparts  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
witnessed  the  spectacle.  Of  course  these  phantoms 
are  still  on  parade,  but  they  do  not  appeal  to  the 
general  intelligence. 

The  world  sense  implies  the  true  historic  sense 

which  distinguishes  between  ideas  and  facts,  between 

reality  and  the  perfunctory  actuality  which  survives 

it,  and  which  the  old  aristocracy  sought  to  perpetuate 

i6  227 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

— the  meaningless  token  of  past  majesty,  surviving 
from  idle  habit  that  aristocracy  itself.  But  this 
world  geist  which  has  created  for  our  time  a  new 
sensibility,  and  thus  the  new  realism,  looks  forward 
rather  than  backward. 

Our  real  literature  has  therefore  no  stock-in-trade 
accumulated  from  old  stores.  It  has  even  dismissed 
old  locutions.  This  renovation  of  speech  is  in  itself 
an  interesting  feature  to  the  reader  who  is  observant 
enough  to  detect  subtle  changes  in  phraseology — 
the  displacement  of  overworked  introductory  and 
conjunctive  clauses  and  the  departure  from  tradi- 
tional syntactic  forms.  These  are  mere  details,  but 
they  show  the  surface  drifts  of  thought,  apparent  in 
the  craftsmanship  of  an  artist  like  Mr.  Howells. 

Writers  of  this  order  may  have  mannerisms,  but 
these  are  at  least  individual ;  they  have  for  the  reader 
who  is  familiar  with  them  the  consistency  which  is 
noted  and  expected  in  the  expression  of  a  friend's 
face  and  in  his  gestures,  original  and  free  from  pose. 
The  manner,  distinctively  real  and  true  in  the  nov- 
elist himself,  loses  these  qualities  when,  as  in  some 
of  the  most  striking  of  R.  D.  Blackmore's  fiction,  it 
becomes  the  manner  of  speech  of  the  characters  in 
the  novel.  The  authorship  of  a  paragraph  written 
by  Henry  James,  speaking  for  himself,  would  be  de- 
tected at  once,  but  the  conversations  in  his  stories 
are  detached  from  his  individuality,  thus  sustaining 
the  reality  of  the  characterization.  The  dramatic 
poem,  or  drama  in  poetic  form,  has  always  been  at 

228 


THE   WORLD   SENSE 

a  disadvantage  in  this  respect,  compelling  the  abso- 
lute detachment  of  the  writer  from  his  work.  Henry 
James  keeps  the  personalities  he  creates  quite  within 
the  reach  of  his  constant  and  pervasive  individual 
interpretation. 

In  the  writer's  scheme,  before  the  new  realism  was 
possible,  his  detachment,  like  that  of  a  showman, 
was  necessary,  since  the  spectacle  must  go  on  in  its 
own  very  much  predetermined  way — predetermined, 
that  is,  by  the  limitations  of  the  audience  for  which 
the  entertainment  was  provided.  The  traditional 
legends,  fancies,  and  prejudices  already  stored  in 
the  minds  of  that  audience,  along  with  elemental 
passions,  fixed  within  narrow  channels  the  author's 
theme  and  procedure,  from  Homer  to  Addison.  The 
sense  of  actuality,  concentrated  upon  certain  fixed 
facts,  memorially  cherished,  and  upon  events,  per- 
sonalities, and  circumstances  of  time  and  place  as- 
sociated with  them,  was  keenly  developed.  Some 
authors  of  transcendent  genius,  accepting  the  limita- 
tions and  the  precise  leverage  upon  the  human  mind 
afforded  them,  made  palaces  of  these  prisons,  as  some 
artists  bound  to  fixed  symbols  yet  realized  the  ever- 
lastingly beautiful.  Those  who,  like  Plato,  rose  to 
the  realm  of  ideas,  addressed  the  few  and,  in  their 
discourse,  were  still  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  in- 
veterate fancies  which  they  could  not  wholly  escape. 

Not  before  our  own  time  has  there  been  an  abso- 
lutely clear  and  transparent  medium  of  communica- 

229 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

tion  between  the  writer  and  an  audience  which  for 
extent  may  be  called  general,  and  which  may  be 
said  to  have  general  intelligence.  It  is  the  imagina- 
tive author's  supreme  advantage  to  have  no  pre- 
conceived vantage-ground  to  stand  upon  and,  on  the 
part  of  his  readers,  no  prepossessions  in  his  way. 
No  accommodation  is  expected  of  him.  His  path 
lies  clear  of  possible  collisions  and  of  occasions  for 
allusive  coquetry  with  vanished  illusions.  He  need 
waste  no  time  or  energy  in  mental  athletics  or  in 
clever  conceits,  need  have  no  epigram  in  waiting  or 
even  a  conciliating  anecdote.  The  sensibility  of  a 
large  audience,  developed  by  the  world  sense,  awaits 
his  disclosure  of  truth  as  he  sees  and  feels  it.  This 
audience  is  upon  his  own  level;  it  is  not  necessary 
for  him  to  write  down  to  it,  and  any  didacticism  on 
his  part  would  be  an  impertinence,  as  any  show- 
man's trick  would  be  an  insolence.  What  part  could 
the  old-fashioned  plotting  of  a  story  have  in  meeting 
the  high  curiosity  of  such  an  audience?  What  has 
high-pitched  rhetoric,  overwrought  passion  or  pathos, 
any  forced  exaltation  or  depression,  to  do  with  its 
proper  satisfaction? 

All  this  is  by  way  of  negation  —  of  reference  to 
elements  excluded  from  the  advanced  imaginative 
literature  of  to-day.  If  our  readers  want  a  positive 
example  of  the  extreme  advance  in  fiction,  they  will 
find  it  in  Henry  James's  stories.  Other  examples, 
not   involving   the   same   keen   vivisection   of  our 

230 


THE   WORLD  SENSE 

modern  life,  would  serve  for  Illustration,  but  Henry 
James's  fiction  is  ultimate  in  its  exposition  of  the 
possibilities  of  a  high  psychical  entertainment — so 
different  from  that  furnished  in  the  literature  of  the 
last  generation  that  it  belongs  to  a  newly  discovered 
continent  of  genius.  His  style  is  not  as  many  who 
are  baffled  by  its  complexity  and  involution  suppose, 
an  affectation  either  carelessly  or  wilfully  assumed, 
but  precisely  adapted  to  his  method  and  purpose; 
and  this  spontaneous  adaptation  has  developed  with 
the  culture  of  his  art.  He  lets  nothing  pertinent  to 
a  given  psychical  moment  slip  away  from  his  flash- 
light illumination  of  that  moment.  That  is  the  ex- 
treme opposite  of  the  narrative  style,  where  incident 
follows  incident  in  tandem,  and  separate  sentences 
convey  circumstances  that  belong  to  a  single  view. 
This  disjunction  does  not  mar  the  story  whose  in- 
terest depends  upon  incident,  but  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  a  pregnant  psychical  situation  it  dissipates 
an  effect  which  depends  upon  perfect  co-ordination. 
If  the  study  of  such  a  writer  is  severe,  it  is  but  the 
complement  of  what  has  first  been  the  writer's  dif- 
ficulty, and  may  be  undertaken  by  thoughtful  read- 
ers as  part  of  a  liberal  education.  It  is  the  more 
worth  while  because  the  situations  presented,  how- 
ever complex,  are  plainly  and  appealingly  human. 
The  difficulty  which  the  reader  has  to  overcome 
arises  out  of  the  real  situation  and  finds  solution 
there  —  very  different  therefore  from  such  difficul- 
ties as  George  Meredith  often  arbitrarily  puts  in  the 

231 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

reader's  way,  through  conceits  referable  only  to  the 
author's  mental  caprice. 

The  complexities  in  the  imaginative  field  of  the 
new  realism  are  those  which  belong  to  the  reality 
itself  of  our  life  in  its  extreme  modernity,  and  they 
lead  to  the  plainest  simplicities  of  our  literature — 
such  simplicities  as  have  been  brought  into  our  prac- 
tical economies  by  complex  scientific  adaptations  of 
physical  forces,  giving  us  the  electric  light,  telephone, 
automobile,  and  motor-car.  Through  what  seemed 
like  an  irrecoverably  broken  integrity  of  life,  the  life 
of  the  world  has  been  assembled  into  a  new  harmony 
and  has  found  its  psychical  integrity.  If  we  could 
realize  for  ourselves  what  was  formerly  styled  the 
simple  life,  if  we  could  return  to  Nature  and  be  again 
immeshed  in  her  web,  we  should  have  no  comprehen- 
sion of  humanity  or  of  Nature. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE   HIDDEN    PATTERN 

A  GOOD  deal  of  affection  is  mingled  with  our 
gratitude  to  writers  who  love  the  past  and 
^  who  have  the  creative  power  to  restore  it  for 
us  by  giving  its  living  reality  fit  embodiment  and 
at  the  same  time  true  imaginative  interpretation. 
Lamb  and  Thackeray  are  more  lovable  to  us  because, 
though  not  caring  for  us,  they  looked  back  with  so 
fond  a  regard  to  the  life  and  literature  of  preceding 
centuries.  It  is  this  that  we  cherish  most  in  their 
mood  and  humor,  and,  lacking  it,  their  writings 
would  lose  their  most  endearing  charm  and  lasting 
value.  We  do  not  so  much  care  for  the  information 
they  convey.  With  them  that  was  merely  incidental. 
Lamb's  sensibility  was  thrilled  by  the  fresh  and  buoy- 
ant pulse  of  life  in  the  Elizabethan  time,  with  a 
response  to  its  imaginative  creations  so  accordant 
and  sympathetic  that  his  interpretations  seem  like 
the  divinations  of  a  familiar  spirit.  Thackeray, 
more  consciously  an  artist,  and  more  detached,  was 
to  a  like  degree  sympathetic  with  the  eighteenth 
century,  giving  us  not  a  chart  but  a  picture  of  it, 

^2>Z 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

penetrating  its  intimacies  so  deeply  that  he  truly 
reflected  its  elegancies,  and  beneath  its  beruffled 
and  bewigged  exterior  disclosed  its  sincerities,  to 
which  with  all  his  heart  he  responded,  yet  leaving 
a  fair  and  fresh  field  for  the  new  appreciations  of 
Austin  Dobson,  who  has  thereby  inherited  his  due 
share  of  the  affection  we  feel  for  his  predecessor. 

Ours  is  a  very  self-sufficient  era,  looking  forward 
rather  than  backward,  but  finding  abundant  oc- 
cupation, inspiration,  and  satisfaction  within  its  own 
fertile  and  amply  developed  domain,  in  no  way  de- 
pendent upon  tradition  for  the  course  of  thought 
or  the  conduct  of  life.  The  knowledge  of  Greek  is 
no  longer  indispensable  to  the  Baccalaureate  degree 
in  our  colleges,  nor  technical  scholarship  in  matters 
of  antiquity  to  a  liberal  culture.  Yet  this  age, 
which  in  every  main  current  of  its  life  has  broken 
with  the  past,  is,  more  than  any  former  age  has  been, 
in  love  with  praeterite  humanity,  as  the  newly  made 
bride  yearns  for  the  home  from  which  her  face  is 
resolutely  averted. 

Not  exactly  like  that,  save  for  the  resolute  aver- 
sion and  the  yearning.  It  is  not  a  sentiment  which 
makes  old  things — old  faces,  old  scenes,  or  old  songs 
— dear  just  because  they  are  old  and  familiar.  It 
is  not  a  religion,  like  the  worship  of  ancestors. 
There  is  in  it  no  link  of  direct  association  as  between 
youth  and  maturity  in  an  individual  life,  making 
vibrant  the  note  of  reminiscence  which  Du  Maurier 
so  often  struck  in  his  fiction.     Nor  is  it  an  idle  play, 

234 


THE   HIDDEN   PATTERN 

as  with  the  strange  toggery  of  an  old  attic.  It  is  a 
strong  passion  like  that  which  archaeology  has  be- 
come to  us  moderns — not  for  facts,  but  for  meanings. 

To  the  imagination  nothing  human  is  alien— and 
behind  us  lies  an  indefinably  long  stretch  of  humanity. 
We  may  find  only  portions  and  parcels  of  a  dreadful 
past,  but  we  resent  unfamiliarity  and  seek  recon- 
cilement. We  look  coldly  upon  any  man  to  whom 
an  outworn  fashion  has  therefore  become  insignifi- 
cant, and  we  doubt  his  new  faith  if  it  has  awakened 
violent  hostility  to  old  faiths.  Truth  which  has 
made  us  free  has  also  given  us  a  comprehension  of 
old  masteries  and  old  slaveries.  This  trait,  which 
is  distinctive  of  modern  imaginative  interpretation, 
has  been  characteristic  of  nearly  all  the  masterly 
creations  in  literature — of  all  that,  by  virtue  of  their 
general  kinship  with  humanity,  still  compel  our 
reading.  Cervantes,  the  worthy  contemporary  and 
almost  peer  of  Shakespeare,  is  the  elect  of  our 
hearts  from  all  Spanish  writers  because,  in  the  first 
great  novel  ever  written,  he  showed  his  love  of  the 
chivalry  he  parodied,  intensifying  its  essential  ideal- 
ism while  playing  havoc  with  its  mock  heroic  fashions. 

We  have  proved  our  sympathy — the  passionate 
ardor  of  it — with  an  older  humanity  by  such  inter- 
pretations as  Pater  and  Symonds  have  given  of 
ancient  and  mediaeval  life  and  of  the  Renaissance, 
and  by  the  warm  regard  in  which  we  hold  these 
writers,  along  with  Andrew  Lang,  who  so  easily 
turns  from  illuminative  appreciations  of  Hellenism 

235 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

to  some  new  disclosures  of  the  virtues  of  the  Pre- 
tenders or  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  and  to  the  praises 
of  the  author  of  Waverley. 

Ever  since  the  new  modern  criticism  began — from 
Sainte-Beuve  to  George  Woodberry  —  the  sympa- 
thetically appreciative  attitude  toward  an  older 
time  has  been  maintained  without  any  sacrifice  of 
our  modernity,  or  rather  as  one  of  the  noblest  mani- 
festations of  the  modern  spirit.  Our  histories  have 
been  rewritten,  accordant  to  this  dominant  note ;  too 
often,  before  our  time,  they  were  written  in  ad- 
vocacy of  some  special  plea,  political  or  religious. 
It  is  surprising  as  well  as  significant,  how  many  and 
remarkable  revisions  have  been  made  within  a  gen- 
eration, correcting  monstrous  and  persistent  tradi- 
tional misrepresentations. 

No  writer  bound  by  class  prejudice  can  truly  pre- 
sent even  the  excellences  justifying  his  own  cause; 
much  less  can  he  truly  portray  the  defects  of  a  cause 
in  conflict  with  his  own.  It  was  impossible  for  us, 
therefore,  before  we  had  broken  with  tradition,  to 
really  comprehend  truths  which  tradition  disguised 
rather  than  supported. 

We  are  only  repeating  what  Thomas  Hill  Green 
expressed  years  ago  in  a  profoundly  philosophical 
essay  on  the  "  Value  and  Influence  of  Works  of  Fic- 
tion," when  we  say  that  the  novel  has  been  one  of 
the  principal  agencies  through  which  class  prejudice 
has  been  gradually  undermined. 

236 


THE   HIDDEN    PATTERN 

Other  forms  of  imaginative  literature — poetry  and 
the  drama  —  flourished  under  the  old  aristocratic 
order,   in   relation   to  which   they  were   subsidiary 
dependents  and,  in  their  high  tension,  participants 
of  its  pomp  and  lofty  statcliness.     The  novel  has 
fulfilled  its  sympathetic  mission  unconsciously  and 
therefore  more  effectively ;  but  it  has  done  this  only 
in  so  far  as  it  has  been  a  real  representation  of 
life.     Much  that  it  has  consciously  attempted,  with 
set   plan,   has   been   unreal,   and   unfortunately   its 
wide  appeal  to  a  lower  order  of  intelligence  has  been 
based  upon  this  unreality.     For  this  reason  our  fic- 
tion  has  not  experienced  the  same  thorough  pur- 
gation as  our  historical  and  critical  interpretation 
of  human  life.     But  the   general   tendency  of  the 
fiction  of  our  day,  on  whatever  level  it  may  reach 
the  popular  mind,  is  toward  reality.     The  general 
intelligence  is   ever  more  and   more  responsive  to 
the  catholic  and  sympathetic  note  of  that  advanced 
criticism  which,  while  it  accepts  all  of  humanity  in 
its  real  significance — the  past  as  well  as  the  pres- 
ent, leaning  with  mingled  awe  and  tenderness  to  old 
sovereignties  and  old  loyalties — yet  resolutely  re- 
pudiates all  formal  judgments  and  set  canons  for  the 
regulation  of  life  and  art,  and  all  prejudices  and 
fixed  notions  which  rest  upon  tradition  or  upon  our 
own  loose  thinking. 

Life  does  not  yield  itself  to  our  study.     Accurate 
•observation  and  close  attention  to  detail  do  not 

237 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

characterize  the  attitude  or  suggest  the  temper  of 
mind  with  which  the  novelist  meets  the  human  phe- 
nomena of  his  own  or  of  any  other  time.  Study  con- 
tracts the  spirit,  dulls  sensibility,  and  leads  often 
to  loose  thinking  and  shallow  feeling.  Love,  pas- 
sionate curiosity,  a  sympathetically  tentacular  sen- 
sibility— to  these  all  worlds,  spiritual  or  material, 
past,  present,  and  to  come,  yield  the  romance  of 
discovery.  The  novelist  communicates  his  dis- 
coveries in  the  very  terms  in  which  they  have  come 
to  his  own  vision.  He  obeys  the  injunction  which 
George  Eliot  put  upon  herself,  and  which  she  ex- 
pressed in  reply  to  the  suggestion  that  she  should 
write  a  novel  based  upon  sociological  data — "  not  to 
let  the  picture  lapse  into  a  diagram." 

The  diagrammatic  habit  came  in  with  logic,  and 
has  no  pertinence  outside  of  the  narrow  scope  of 
human  adjustments  subject  to  arbitrary  volition  and 
design.  The  lines  thus  rigidly  drawn  are  not  those 
of  life  in  man  or  nature ;  a  single  pulse  of  the  living 
world  shatters  the  whole  plan.  When  Portia  comes 
into  court,  Shylock's  demand  for  exact  justice  suf- 
fers derision.  When  the  Lord  utters  His  parable  of 
the  Judgment,  we  ask  what  has  become  of  the 
decalogue?  In  no  logical  scheme  of  the  universe 
could  it  be  in  the  natural  course  of  things  that  the 
innocent  should  suffer  for  the  guilty — but  so  it  is  in 
the  real  world. 

Yet  from  the  beginning  man  has  sought  to  super- 
impose his  diagrams  upon  life  and  the  living  world 

238 


THE   HIDDEN   PATTERN 

— to  his  own  confusion.  He  is  saved  from  his  own 
logical  absurdities  only  by  the  fact  that  his  own  life 
is  one  with  that  of  the  universe,  woven  according 
to  a  pattern  hidden  from  his  conscious  observation. 
So  far  apart  are  rationality  and  reasonableness. 

It  is  just  those  notions  which  we  hold  as  certitudes, 
whether  as  obvious  to  common-sense  or  as  infallibly 
established  by  studious  logic,  that  are  convicted  of 
falsity  and  shallowness  in  any  real  vision.  Even 
Euclid's  axioms  are  contradicted  in  the  higher  re- 
gions of  mathematics.  The  man  with  a  paradox  has 
his  prosperity  and  welcome  because  of  our  under- 
lying conviction  that  only  by  the  inversion  of  ob- 
vious maxims  are  living  truths  disclosed. 

The  creative  imagination,  though  in  every  age  the 
servant  of  human  misconceptions  and  prejudices — 
as  Apollo  tended  the  flocks  of  Admetos — has  softened 
the  hard  lines  and  covered  confusion  with  beauty; 
readily  inclining  to  the  hidden  pattern  of  life's  mak- 
ing which,  in  final  reconcilement,  proved  to  be  that 
also  of  its  own  weaving. 

Now  is  the  day  of  that  reconcilement.  Our  pres- 
ent culture  means  above  all  things  submission  with- 
out reserve  to  the  mastery  of  life — of  life  as  it  is  and 
not  as  we  loosely  think  it  ought  to  be,  or  as  we  would 
in  the  dry  air  of  reason  have  arbitrarily  devised  and 
fashioned  it. 

It  is  not  in  the  schools,  by  the  acquisition  of 
special  information,  that  the  imaginative  writer  is 

239 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

equipped  for  his  ministry  of  communication,  but  in 
sympathetic  contact  with  the  pulsing,  vibrant  life 
of  humanity.  Never  in  any  former  age  was  such  a 
culture  possible  to  him:  in  nature,  in  literature,  in 
the  inspiration  to  be  derived  from  the  main  currents 
of  the  world  about  him. 

So  much  has  been  restored  to  him  that  was  former- 
ly blurred  or  eclipsed — faith,  romance,  the  beauty 
and  glory  of  the  world — that  what  seemed  disillusion- 
ment becomes,  to  his  clearer  vision,  revelation. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  past  he  has  broken  with  is 
nearer  to  his  sympathetic  comprehension  than  it  was 
to  the  men  who  lived  in  it.  He  can  now,  as  men 
never  could  before,  accept  Nature  not  for  didactical 
suggestions  or  sophistical  analogies,  or  reflections 
of  human  sentiment,  but  for  what  she  really  is  in 
herself  as  a  living  organism;  for  what  science  has 
disclosed  of  her  rhythmic  harmonies,  yet  divest- 
ing these  of  formal  predicaments  and  evolutionary 
phraseology;  and  for  her  never  failing  charm,  in 
the  infinite  variety  of  plant  and  animate  life,  in  the 
unpremeditated  motions  of  cloud,  wind,  and  stream, 
and  in  the  varied  gradations  of  color  and  tone.  Best 
of  all,  she  belongs  to  the  kingdom  of  grace,  with  no 
response  to  merit,  but  quick  for  healing  and  merciful 
ministries. 

This  is  the  same  Nature  which  from  the  beginning 
has  wooed  the  human  soul,  not  less  invitingly  be- 
cause inarticulately  and  in  many  ways  persuasively, 
but  now  for  the  first  time  frankly  accepted.     The 

240 


THE    HIDDEN    PATTERN 

wooing  by  Artemis  of  End ym ion  is  realized,  divested 
of  the  mythical  disguise.  The  flowing  lines  of  the 
hidden  pattern  shown  in  Nature  are  seen  to  be 
complementary  to  those  that  same  pattern — so  un- 
like our  diagrams — has  been  shaping  in  our  human 
life;  the  gracious  descents  of  the  material  world — 
whose  own  ascensions  are  invisible  to  us — correspond 
to  the  risings  of  humanity. 

In  like  manner  is  this  human  life  restored  to  and 
accepted  by  us  on  its  own  living  terms — in  its  happy 
and  inevitable  altruisms  which  displace  those  of 
busybodies  and  meddlers,  —  in  its  uplifting,  which 
is  better  than  our  hard  and  brittle  rectitude, — and 
in  its  generous  spirit  which  judges  not  nor  abstractly 
separates  between  the  good  and  evil  so  inextricably 
mingled  in  the  temperament  of  both  the  human 
and  the  natural  world.  Is  it  not  in  this  way  that 
the  Master's  gospel  also  has  been  restored  to  us  for 
our  real  apprehension? 

The  distinctive  value,  for  the  writer,  of  this  mod- 
ern culture  is  one  derived  immediately  from  life 
in  humanity  and  Nature,  and  not  from  any  formula- 
tion of  truths  about  life  as  the  result  of  study  or 
studious  observation.  Our  culture  depends  upon  the 
growth  of  faculty  and  the  evolution  of  sensibility, 
resulting  in  real  knowing  and  real  thinking,  as  well 
as  in  true  feeling.  The  glosses  w*hich  have  been  put 
upon  our  own  life  and  that  of  Nature  are  removed, 
and  the  significance  of  the  partnership  of  man  with 
the  physical  world  from  the  beginning  is  disclosed. 

241 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

Because  the  general  intelligence  has  been  to  so 
great  an  extent  illuminated  by  this  new  culture,  the 
imaginative  writer  has  the  supreme  advantage  of  a 
large,  ever-widening  appreciation  and  response  to  a 
real  representation  and  interpretation  of  life.  There 
is  no  restriction  upon  his  field,  so  that  he  hold  to  the 
living  truth  in  theme  and  method,  following  living 
lines,  and  eschewing  the  loose  thinking  engendered 
by  formal  study — such  study  as  often  enters  into 
what  is  falsely  called  idealism,  thus  "sicklied  o'er 
with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

It  is  not  necessary,  and  certainly  it  is  not  desirable, 
that  any  writer  in  this  or  in  a  coming  generation 
should  choose  to  do  just  the  thing  which  Henry 
James  does — least  of  all  any  other  kind  of  thing  in 
just  his  manner.  It  is  enough  if  he  can  see  as  plain- 
ly and  have  the  same  passionate  desire  for  truth. 
There  will  always  be  writers — at  least  until  we  have 
reached  the  millennium  of  culture  which,  to  the  most 
optimistic  expectation,  is  yet  very  far  away — who 
will  prefer  effectivism  to  reality,  appealing  to  the 
crude  tastes  and  unwholesome  appetites  of  the  less 
thoughtful  reader,  or  who  will  flatter  stiff-notioned 
Philistinism.  We  have  in  Maeterlinck  the  example 
of  a  mind  growing  in  the  processes  of  its  creative 
work  from  the  fitful  and  uncertain  fancies  of  his 
early  dramas  to  the  highest  levels  of  speculative 
interpretation.  But  usually  the  line  of  distinction 
separates  writers  according  to  aims,  false  or  true, 
dominating  their  work  from  first  to  last.     Maeter- 

242 


THE   HIDDEN    PATTERN 

linck,  even  in  his  faltering  first  steps,  saw  the  ra- 
diance of  a  living  truth  which  illuminatcfl  his  in- 
stabilities, and  which  has  grown  into  the  clear,  full 
light  of  his  later  day. 

No  living  theme  is  excluded  from  fiction  by  modem 
realism.  The  reality  is  in  the  writer's  vision  rather 
than  in  the  selection  of  this  or  that  particular  theme. 
He  must  see  plainly,  without  colored  glasses  or  mag- 
nifying lenses,  or  —  to  get  away  from  the  physical 
metaphor — without  notional  distortion. 

This  kind  of  realism  surrenders  many  striking 
effects  possible  to  the  showman's  artifice,  and  many 
that  are  natural  in  the  untempered  expression  of 
primal  passions.  Undue  emphasis  and  exaggera- 
tion, cumulative  magniloquence,  and  the  falsely 
pitched  note  of  enthusiasm  in  literature  have  fallen 
into  contempt,  even  on  the  stage,  as  they  have  in 
oratory  and  in  all  forms  of  expression.  We  resent 
declamation  and  reserve  the  "Marseillaise"  for  rev- 
olutions. We  are  mastered  by  the  note  of  our 
plain,  common  life,  and  our  art  is  subdued  to  a 
natural  compass  of  exaltation,  as  in  the  most  highly 
developed  music.  This  is  not  a  "development  of 
plane  surfaces."  The  harmony  is  chromatic,  com- 
plexly broken,  and  therefore  has  unlimited  variation 
of  expression,  yet  preserving  a  natural  dignity. 
Reserve  has  always  been  essential  to  art;  it  is  our 
Hellenic  heritage  of  culture;  but  this  term  does  not 
adequately  characterize  our  modem  mood  in  the 
17  243 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

best  prose  any  more  than  it  does  in  the  best  music. 
The  chromatism,  affecting  the  content,  whereas  re- 
serve affects  the  form,  of  expression,  is  distinctly 
modern.  In  music  we  might  call  it  a  division  of 
tone,  in  painting  a  division  of  color,  in  response  to 
the  more  complex  culture  of  hearing  and  vision. 
In  a  general  way  we  might  call  it  a  more  divided 
living  and  thinking,  in  response  to  the  more  com- 
plex culture  of  sensibility.  Or  we  might  use  an  evo- 
lutionary term  and  call  it  advanced  specialization. 
But  this  is  all  a  kind  of  diagrammatic  explanation  of 
something  eluding  explication — something  which  we 
apprehend  in  its  own  living  terms,  and  which  we  see 
growing  into  these  terms  in  the  modern  course  of 
life,  literature,  and  art. 

Every  personage,  divine  or  human,  in  Homer's 
poems  comes  before  us  with  a  single  epithet,  which 
is  repeated  with  each  reappearance  of  the  character. 
In  later  literature  there  is  an  equally  inflexible 
typical  delineation.  Coming  down  to  a  period  nearer 
our  own,  let  us  compare  a  novel  by  Fielding  with  one 
by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  The  vast  difference  is  not 
more  apparent  in  superficial  portraiture  than  it  is 
in  the  meanings  of  life,  hidden  from  the  earlier  and 
abundantly  disclosed  by  the  later  novelist.  Life 
itself  has  changed  in  the  interval  separating  these 
two  writers — changed  in  what  it  is  to  human  thought 
and  feeling — more  than  Nature  has  to  the  human 
comprehension  of  her  mysteries  through  the  revela- 

244 


THE   HIDDEN    PATTERN 

tions  of  science ;  and  the  development  of  imaginative 
sensibility  has  been  both  a  part  and  a  product  of  the 
transformation.  Mrs.  Ward  is  probably  not  a  great- 
er genius  than  Fielding,  any  more  than  the  intellect 
of  Herbert  Spencer  was  greater  than  that  of  Aristotle, 
or  the  creative  power  of  Tennyson  mightier  than  that 
of  i^schylus.  What  has  happened  to  the  modern 
world — just  this  world  of  ours  to-day — is  new  life, 
along  with  a  new  sense  of  it,  because  of  truer  vision 
and  real  thinking. 

Something  creative  in  this,  not  the  result  of  study 
or  close  attention  to  detail,  has  wrought  the  trans- 
formation, lifting  life  and  sensibility  to  a  new  psy- 
chical plane,  and  disclosing  an  infinite  variety  of 
hitherto  unsuspected  phenomena — a  play  of  activ- 
ities undreamed  of  before.  To  reach  this  chromat- 
ic harmony  it  was  only  necessary  to  accept  life  on 
its  own  living  terms,  instead  of  imposing  upon  it 
terms  derived  from  our  notions,  conceits,  fancies, 
prejudices,  or  any  kind  of  sentimental  predilections, 
and  arriving  at  what  we  call  "views"  of  life  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  real  sense  of  it. 

It  is  this  real  sense  which,  on  the  psycnical  plane, 
has  introduced  to  us  a  new  continent  whose  alti- 
tudes and  depressions  are  not  determined  by  primal 
seismic  violences,  but  come  within  the  gamut  of 
sane  thought  and  feeling, — yet  by  no  means  therefore 
a  level  world;  and  the  charm  and  infinite  variety 
of  the  phenomena  thus  disclosed,  and  furnishing  the 
rich  content  of  our  new  literature,  more  than  com- 

245 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

pensate  for  the  towering  eminences  and  yawning 
abysses  of  the  continents  left  behind  us.  We  do 
not  regret  our  atrophy  to  old  shocks  and  obsessions. 
Our  new  histories  do  not  disappoint  us  because  they 
sacrifice  impressively  dramatic  and  spectacular  ef- 
fects to  real  disclosures,  nor  our  new  fiction  because 
it  depends  for  its  interest  less  upon  striking  plots  of 
construction  and  pronounced  traits  in  characteriza- 
tion than  upon  a  really  significant  representation  of 
human  life. 

The  best  fiction  of  to-day  has  really  more  of  con- 
structive art  than  that  which  preceded  it,  though  this 
art,  following  the  lines  of  life  rather  than  an  arranged 
scheme,  is  not  manifest  in  obvious  features.  It  has 
more  varied  traits,  instead  of  a  few  emphatically 
pronounced  or  merely  typical  features.  It  has  a 
deeper  dramatic  interest,  intellectually  and  emo- 
tionally, though  the  drama  itself  is  so  changed  to 
follow  the  pattern  which  life  itself  makes,  yet  in  its 
course  unfolding  novel  surprises.  Above  all,  it  has 
more  spontaneous  play  of  human  activities  and  a 
finer  and  more  vital  humor — not  the  specific  humor 
which  excites  to  laughter  or  even  suppressed  merri- 
ment, but  which,  like  every  other  quality  of  the 
modern  art  of  expression,  is  pervasive,  without 
losing  articulate  distinction,  concurrent  with  the 
ever-varying  course  of  the  writer's  thought  and 
feeling.  Humor,  in  this  sense,  is  the  most  distinc- 
tive quality  of  life — the  index  of  its  flexibility,  of 
its  tenderness,  mercy,  and  forgiveness. 

246 


THE   HIDDEN   PATTERN 

As  we  accept  Nature  for  what  she  is  in  herself — 
so  purely  for  this  that  we  prefer  to  consider  separate- 
ly the  results  of  scientific  investigation  concerning 
her  processes — so  we  accept  life  on  its  own  terms, 
disregarding  philosophies  of  history  or  any  formal 
scientific  theories  concerning  human  phenomena. 

This  attitude  saves  the  imaginative  writer  from 
taking  himself  seriously  or — what  is  the  same  thing 
— presenting  life  in  rigidly  absolute  terms  which 
reality  inevitably  contradicts.  There  are  no  straight 
lines  in  his  procedure,  and  what  notionally  is  called 
a  plane  becomes  in  his  geometry  spherical,  as  it  must 
in  a  real  world.  Seriousness  is  too  much  a  bewray- 
ment  of  life  to  be  confounded  with  sincerity.  In  its 
dulness  and  lack  of  vibrancy,  it  is  as  alien  to  sorrow 
as  it  is  to  joy — to  the  tragedies  of  life  as  to  its  come- 
dies. The  great  masters  in  literature  have  eschewed 
it,  whatever  their  other  defections  from  the  truth  of 
life.  John  the  Baptist  was  "serious"  when  he 
thought  to  set  the  world  right  by  the  rectification  of 
human  accounts,  the  payment  of  dues,  and  repara- 
tion for  injuries.  He  came  fasting,  but  when  the 
Master  came,  eating  and  drinking,  the  friend  of 
publicans  and  sinners,  this  formal  scheme  was  dis- 
solved in  the  good  Lord's  humor,  showing  the  hidden 
pattern. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   MODERN   URBANITY 

SIMPLICITY  is  more  an  urban  than  a  rustic 
quality  in  our  modern  humanity.  It  is  indeed 
the  noblest  achievement  of  civilization,  asso- 
ciated with  all  that  we  esteem  the  finest  fruits  of 
human  culture — freedom  and  breadth  of  thought, 
catholicity  of  sympathy,  truth  of  art  and  life. 

This  was  not  perhaps  quite  so  evident  a  few  gen- 
erations ago,  when  it  was  the  fashion  to  a^^sume  that 
the  city  must  be  perennially  redeemed  from  effemi- 
nacy and  corruption  by  the  accession  of  fresh  blood 
from  the  country.  We  should  now  unhesitatingly 
say  that  the  salvation  of  the  country  has  all  along 
been  the  accession  of  urban  influences.  A  cycle 
must  be  in  good  measure  completed  before  it  is 
clearly  understood.  Many  of  our  fixed  maxims  per- 
taining to  policies  and  economics  are  derived  from 
ancient  history,  and  have  to  be  reversed  for  any 
application  to  our  own  time.  Even  in  the  ancient 
and  mediaeval  world  it  is  clearly  enough  seen  that 
the  history  of  the  city  is  that  of  civilization.  The 
oldest  cities  are  ruined  or  stagnant,  and  we  know 

248 


THE   MODERN    URBANITY 

the  story  of  the  causes  of  their  decadence,  but  each 
bequeathed  some  precious  legacy  to  the  world. 

The  modern  city  belongs  to  another  order.  It 
does  not  exist  for  the  glory  of  an  individual  sovereign 
or  of  a  class,  or  for  the  exploitation  of  all  outlying 
humanity.  It  has  not  within  itself  the  seeds  of  in- 
evitable decadence.  It  rises  in  fresh  vigor  with 
every  new  generation.  The  country  looks  to  the 
city  and  to  the  university,  which  is  a  concentration 
of  a  city's  highest  values,  for  its  inspiration  and 
uplifting. 

We  no  longer  hear  of  the  artificialities  of  urban 
life,  which  during  the  last  half  century  seems  to  have 
undergone  the  same  transformation  as  our  imagina- 
tive literature — the  same  divestiture  of  sophistica- 
tion and  unreality.  The  banalities  and  frivolities  of 
the  vain  and  empty-headed  survive,  alike  in  town 
and  country,  only  with  more  opportunity  for  their 
senseless  display  in  the  urban  environment,  perhaps 
to  a  greater  extent  than  they  do  in  the  giddier  sort  of 
literature,  which  is  more  sensitive  to  the  contempt 
of  the  thoughtful ;  but,  for  thoroughly  plain  men  and 
women,  without  pretence  or  disguise,  who  exemplify 
the  true  modern  idea  of  the  simple  life,  we  look  to 
the  urban  rather  than  to  the  provincial  type. 

The  period  of  this  transformation  which  has  given 
us  a  new  urbanity  has  been  precisely  that  which  has 
brought  to  its  consummation  the  vast  organization 
of  commerce  and  industry,  and  the  mastery,  for 

249 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

human  uses,  of  the  forces  of  Nature.  The  parallelism 
is  significant.  This  florescence  of  material  progress 
would  give  us  only  food  for  pessimism  if  there  had 
not  also  emerged,  in  corresponding  impressiveness, 
the  mastery  of  the  human  spirit  in  quick  reaction 
to  the  materialism,  which  was  thus  confessed  to  be 
a  part  of  the  evolution  of  that  spirit.  All  we  ask 
of  this  last  phase  of  that  complex  social  and  material 
organization  which  it  is  the  office  of  the  modern  city 
to  create  and  promote  is  that  it  be  catholic,  sane, 
and,  in  the  largest  sense,  humanly  helpful;  and  the 
general  resolution  to  make  it  and  keep  it  that  is  es- 
sentially a  part  of  this  whole  high  and  supremely 
modern  transaction.  The  main  and  most  significant 
consideration  is  that  the  immense  leverage  upon 
circumstance  gained  by  this  progress  means  facility 
and  opportunity — the  release  of  the  spirit  for  the 
noblest  uses  and  purposes  of  life. 

The  merely  outward  spectacle  of  our  metropolis 
to-day  may  seem  massively  imposing,  and  one 
whirled  along  by  the  elevated  railway  on  the  lower 
east  side  of  the  city  catches  glimpses  of  architectural 
effects  which  rival  in  picturesqueness  the  canons 
of  the  Colorado;  but  closer  acquaintance  discloses 
delicate  and  ingenious  devices  for  ease,  economy, 
and  expedition,  which  appeal  to  a  finer  fancy,  sug- 
gesting the  spritely  offices  of  a  new  and  unmythical 
Ariel,  who  is  as  deft  in  social  as  in  business  service. 
Who  can  estimate  what  up-town  apartment  residence 
has  done  to  simplify  the  life  of  young  married  couples  ? 

250 


THE    MODERN    URBANITY 

Yet  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago  that  the  finest  spirits 
in  Hterature,  Hke  Ruskin  and  Carlyle,  were  berating 
this  modern  progress,  and  had  a  large  and  sympa- 
thetic following.  It  was  not  that  they  thought  to 
find  the  simple  life  by  going  into  the  woods.  They 
were  lovers  of  the  city,  and  it  was  the  disturbance  of 
urban  life — the  violence  done  to  its  old  and  pict- 
uresque aspects — which  they  chiefly  deprecated.  All 
great  writers,  and  especially  the  poets,  have  been 
haunted  by  the  beauties  of  old  cities.  Tennyson 
missed  the  humors  of  London  streets,  and  would 
have  more  frequented  those  streets  if  he  had  not  been 
so  easily  recognized  that  every  flower-girl  would  beg 
"Mr.  Tinnison  to  buy  just  one  little  nosegay." 

The  amenities  of  life  are  of  urban  genesis  and 
culture.  As  Lady  Montagu  truly  said,  "  People  mis- 
take very  much  in  placing  peace  in  woods  and 
shades,  for  I  believe  solitude  puts  people  out  of 
humor  and  makes  them  disposed  to  quarrel." 

A  great  city  is  itself  no  small  part  of  the  culture 
of  a  young  writer  or  artist ;  it  is  at  once  the  fountain 
and  the  haven  of  the  Humanities  in  art  and  litera- 
ture, rich  also  in  monuments  and  historic  associations. 
Human  life  at  full  tide  offers  itself  in  limitless  variety 
to  the  sympathetic  mind  and  heart;  and  sympathy 
itself  is  the  deepest  note  of  urban  sensibility.  Every 
great  city  has,  moreover,  its  individual  mood  and 
temperament,  gathering  to  itself  the  children  of  its 
own  feeling  and  genius. 

251 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

All  this  praise  is  due  to  cities  of  the  old  order, 
under  the  aristocratic  regime,  which,  despite  the 
vices  and  artificialities  due  to  an  unwholesome  re- 
finement— such  as  denatured  Paris  at  the  middle 
of  the  eighteenth  century  and  evoked  from  Rousseau 
the  most  sophistical  of  tirades  against  sophistication 
— still  appealed  to  the  poet  and  humanist.  Has 
the  purgation  wrought  by  the  more  healthy  modern 
sensibility,  and  completed,  as  it  could  not  otherwise 
have  been,  through  comparatively  recent  triumphs 
of  science  and  material  organization,  made  our 
cities  less  alluring? 

Certainly  in  some  cities  it  has  had  this  effect  upon 
the  £esthetic  sensibility.  Charles  Lamb,  "revisiting 
the  glimpses  of  the  moon,"  would  be  able  to  find 
more  of  his  old  London,  with  less  violent  derange- 
ment of  the  familiar  perspective,  than  Henry  James 
recently  could  discover  of  his  old  New  York  after 
twenty  years'  absence.  Yet  this  distinguished 
novelist,  for  all  his  keen  disappointment  from  the 
disturbance  of  personal  reminiscence,  could  not  be 
psychically  insensible  to  many  a  novel  humor  and 
agreeable  surprise. 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  in  the  modern  move- 
ment, the  cities  of  most  rapid  recent  growth  have 
lost  much  of  their  old  urbanity.  But  they  have 
developed  suburbanity,  and  have  made  urban  the 
vast  outlying  territory.  Hence  the  automobile — 
one  of  the  most  obvious  tokens  of  the  simple  life, 
in  our  modern  conception  of  it — is  a  familiar  sight 

252 


THE   MODERN    URBANITY 

on  all  country  roads ;  and  the  manifest  improvement 
of  public  highways  has  been  largely  due  to  new 
means  of  locomotion,  beginning  with  the  bicycle. 

In  the  times  just  preceding  our  own,  eminent 
writers  and  artists  seem  to  have  clustered  in  groups. 
Indeed,  this  is  a  very  old  habit  in  the  centres  of 
culture,  in  cities  and  university  towns ;  we  can  point 
out  these  stellar  groups  in  the  galactic  drift  of  the 
centuries  from  Athens  to  Edinburgh.  From  the 
early  years  of  the  eighteenth  century  certain  dis- 
tinctively recognizable  groups  of  writers  established 
and  sustained  by  their  contributions  periodicals  for 
the  popular  diffusion  of  culture.  The  mention  of 
Addison,  Dr.  Johnson,  Professor  Wilson,  Sydney 
Smith,  Robert  Southey,  William  Hazlitt,  Leigh  Hunt, 
Tom  Hood,  and,  in  a  later  generation,  of  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  Leslie  Stephen,  and  Froude,  brings  to 
our  minds  at  once  not  only  distinct  aggregations  of 
authors  bound  together  by  intimate  association,  but 
the  reviews,  monthly  magazines,  and  literary  week- 
lies which  were  the  reflection  of  their  thought  and 
their  time. 

There  are  no  such  closely  blended  associations  of 
writers  in  the  England  of  to-day,  either  for  con- 
centration of  literary  influence  through  periodical 
publications,  or,  independently  of  any  special  work 
of  this  kind,  such  a  group  as  the  Cambridge 
"apostles,"  consisting  of  friendly  thinkers  like  Ten- 
nyson, Arthur  Hallam,  Trench,  Spedding,  Maurice, 

253 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

and  Sterling.  Nor  in  American  centres  are  there  any 
successors  to  those  old  affiliations  existing  among 
authors  in  New  York  in  Bryant's,  Irving's,  and 
Whitman's  time,  or  in  Boston  and  Cambridge  in 
the  days  of  the  old  Anthology  Club,  out  of  which 
came  the  North  American  Review,  or  later  when  the 
most  notable  of  all  American  literary  constellations 
shone  first  and  for  a  few  in  the  pages  of  the  Dial, 
and  afterward  for  the  whole  country  in  those  of  the 
Atlantic  Monthly.  It  is  within  our  memory  that  the 
Lyceum  lecture  system  was  a  kind  of  national  in- 
stitution, but  it  was  supported  by  a  score  of  eminent 
writers  who,  whether  they  came  from  Philadelphia, 
New  York,  or  Boston,  would  have  needed  no  per- 
sonal introduction  if  they  had  met  by  chance  in 
Ticknor  &  Fields'  "Old  Corner  Book-store." 

Now,  in  England  and  America,  the  club  has  taken 
the  place  of  those  old  spontaneous  affinities.  This 
remarkable  change  in  the  social  habits  of  writers 
has  come  in  the  natural  course  of  evolution  through 
the  urbanization  of  the  whole  country.  The  writer 
to-day  knows  no  local  centre  and  courts  no  literary 
affinities;  he  does  not  even  care  to  be  considered  a 
literary  person.  His  affiliation  is  with  his  readers. 
The  absence  of  any  professional  guise  helps  to 
simplify  his  life  as  a  free  and  plain  personality,  and 
in  his  relation  to  other  human  beings  whom  he 
desires  to  know  simply  as  plain  men  and  women. 
He  is  at  home  everywhere,  without  any  disquieting 
apprehension  of  being  recognized  as  "the  great  This 

254 


THE    MODERN    URBANITY 

or  That,"  content  to  have  broken  with  greatness  of 
any  kind,  with  every  labelled  distinction. 

The  social  habits  of  the  whole  people  have  suffered 
a  corresponding  change.  Progressive  urbanity  pro- 
motes readier  and  wider  sympathy,  not  dependent 
upon  domestic  or  local  relationships,  or  even  upon 
previous  acquaintance.  The  family  is  not  held  so 
closely  together  in  the  old  way,  and  the  urbane  re- 
laxation of  an  often  irrational  lien  has  refined  the 
relationship,  giving  it  more  beauty  and  friendli- 
ness, with  reasonable  concessions  to  individuality. 
Narrow  circles,  cliques  bound  together  by  common 
tastes  or  prejudices,  have  been  broken  up.  Inter- 
ests larger  and  more  varied  have  become  common 
in  a  more  general  sense,  delocalizing  community 
itself.  One  is  not  embarrassingly  concerned  be- 
cause he  has  not  been  introduced  to  another;  if 
prompted  to  comradeship,  he  easily  yields  to  it  on 
the  simplest  terms,  as  readily  as  he  would  dive  into 
the  pages  of  a  new  author.  Young  people  who 
never  met,  all  over  the  country,  are  corresponding 
with  one  another  with  graceful  familiarity.  This 
could  not  have  happened,  naturally  and  as  a  matter 
of  course,  a  generation  ago. 

Literature  in  all  its  forms,  from  the  novel  to  the 
newspaper,  has,  more  than  anything  else,  widened 
the  sense  of  community.  Fiction  has  made  every 
genuine  character  we  meet  interesting  and  com- 
panionable.    There   is   little   reading   of   it   aloud, 

255 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

which  was  a  common  family  occupation  fifty  years 
ago.  Each  reader's  occupation  is  with  the  writer, 
and  with  a  host  of  writers.  He  no  longer  needs  the 
Lyceum  lecture,  and  does  not  especially  care  to  see 
his  favorite  authors  on  the  platform;  the  personal 
curiosity  is  narrow  in  comparison  with  that  higher 
curiosity  which  impels  him  as  simply  a  reader,  and 
which  is  so  abundantly  and  variously  satisfied. 

To  this  general  urbane  sensibility  travel  is  no 
longer  necessary  for  either  its  stimulation  or  satis- 
faction— would  indeed  limit  experience  to  the  ob- 
servation of  mere  actualities,  and  destroy  many  a 
beautiful  illusion  created  by  writers  out  of  elements 
which  escape  the  notice  of  the  casual  tourist.  The 
desire  for  travel  is  stimulated  by  these  writers  and 
our  journeys  through  the  world  made  more  pleasur- 
able, through  the  association  of  actual  scenes  with 
the  far  more  significant  pictures  they  have  made 
for  us,  but  our  imagination,  thus  revivified,  still  de- 
pends, for  all  the  most  important  values,  upon  a 
previous  impression,  involving  much  that  is  absent 
from  actual  vision. 

Does  the  American  writer  miss  something  which 
foreign  writers  seem  to  have  ready  at  their  hand  from 
the  deeper  cleavage  between  classes  and  the  conse- 
quently more  marked  distinction  of  outward  traits  ? 
Some  of  Thomas  Hardy's  most  characteristic  work 
is  in  his  masterly  portraiture  of  the  peasant-^the 
best  in  English  fiction,  better  than  Scott's  of  the 
corresponding  class  in  his  own  country,  excellent  as 

256 


THE   MODERN    URBANITY 

that  is.  But  we  have  no  such  class  in  America. 
Yet  our  story-writers  have  made  the  most  possible 
of  rustic  local  color  and  character,  of  pioneer  life, 
of  every  provincial  trait;  more  eagerly  perhaps  be- 
cause of  the  paucity  of  material. 

We  have  never  had  any  really  close  and  down- 
right native  provincialism  in  the  United  States. 
The  types  that  seem  to  us  most  provincial  did  not 
inherit  that  character,  but  have  acquired  it  through 
prolonged  sequestration  in  comparatively  inacces- 
sible districts.  Our  earliest  settlers  sought  the  new 
continent,  some  of  them  impelled  by  the  spirit  of 
adventure,  but  most  of  them  by  the  desire  for  free- 
dom. They  were  people  with  formed  characters, 
obstinate  convictions,  and  strenuous  determinations 
— not  a  plastic  race  from  which  one  would  expect  a 
renascence  in  art  or  literature. 

These  limitations,  intensified  by  the  exigencies  of 
a  straitened  environment,  narrowed  American  lives 
through  several  generations,  but  in  the  channels  of 
expression  rather  than  in  those  of  sensibility.  While 
creative  genius  was  manifest  in  statesmanship,  we 
can  see  why  the  production  of  masterpieces  in 
literature  was  so  long  delayed.  Not  thus  narrowly 
determined  was  the  American  sensibility  to  litera- 
ture or  to  influences  from  the  main  currents  of  the 
world's  life.  Early  periodical  literature  in  this 
country  existed  mainly  to  meet  the  eager  demand 
of  readers  for  selections  from  the  best  current  English 
essays  and  poetry,  and  to  satisfy  their  keen  curiosity 

257 


THE  NEW  LITERATURE 

concerning  European  events.  Especially  toward 
France  the  general  attention  was  turned  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  revolutionary  drama,  and  even  in  Boston, 
where  Federalism  was  dominant,  the  sentiment  of 
egalite  was  so  fanatically  adopted  that  to  many  the 
modest  title  of  "Mr."  seemed  repugnant  and  gave 
place  to  "  Citizen,"  and  it  was  a  subject  of  discussion 
in  the  newspapers  what  less  awkward  word  might 
serve  the  same  democratic  office  as  "Citizeness" 
in  place  of  "Mrs."  When  Bryant  was  the  one 
American  singer  to  respond  to  Wordsworth's  note, 
Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  and  the  Lake  poets  were 
as  joyously  acclaimed  by  American  readers  as  they 
were  derisively  criticised  in  Blackwood  and  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  In  the  next  generation  Macau- 
lay's  essays  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  were  collected 
and  published  in  book  form,  as  were  De  Quincey's, 
in  a  score  of  volumes,  and  Thackeray's  Yellow-plush 
Papers  and  Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus  —  which  was 
still-born  in  Eraser  s,  so  far  as  English  appreciation 
was  concerned — years  before  these  authors  were  thus 
honored  in  their  own  land.  This  quick  and  keen 
sensibility  was  developed  not  merely  in  cities  and 
towns,  but  in  country  districts  and  in  new  Western 
settlements  and  mining  camps. 

The  Westward  movement  carried  with  it  the  prog- 
ress of  the  nineteenth  century,  was  an  expansion  of 
Eastern  culture.  Even  the  sharp  traits  of  pioneer 
life  rapidly  disappeared.  The  sensibility  was  not 
merely  national,  it  was  cosmopolitan.     What  used 

258 


THE   MODERN    URBANITY 

to  be  called,  in  a  peculiar  sense,  our  Americanism  is 
no  longer  a  sought-for  distinction,  and  we  do  not 
now  look  for  "the  great  American  novel." 

This  urbanization  of  the  country  does  not  tend  to 
uniformity.  The  old  outward  idiom  —  the  settled 
form  of  dialect,  tone,  and  manner — whether  in  city 
or  country  life,  was  the  result  of  a  crystallization 
which  is  now  impossible.  The  modem  simple  life, 
accentuated  by  its  complexity,  is  forever  flowing 
into  infinitely  varied  manners  and  humors — traits 
of  the  spirit — thus  offering  to  the  writer  of  fiction  a 
richly  diversified  humanity,  with  adventures  and 
excitements  of  a  new  order.  Since  it  is  a  so  wholly 
urbane  field,  it  does  not  matter  whether  the  writer 
finds  his  people  in  the  city  or  in  the  country.  If 
Holman  Day  takes  us  into  the  woods  in  King 
Spruce,  it  is  the  human  flavor  and  not  that  of  the 
woods  which  we  relish.  The  theme  need  not  be 
urban  so  that  it  is  really  and  plainly  human,  though 
it  is  only  to  the  urban  sensibility  of  readers  that 
such  rustic  sketches  as  Muriel  Campbell  Dyar  gives 
us  could  appeal. 

z8 


-^H4#*<* 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    INEXPLICABLE   IDEALISM 

THE  aspiring  young  writer,  however  patient- 
ly he  may  have  followed  us  in  our  study  of 
imaginative  literature,  will  not  be  able  to 
derive  therefrom  any  helpful  guidance  to  worthy 
achievement  in  that  field.  More  than  ever  before  it 
is  a  chartless  field.  The  old  sign-posts  are  of  little 
avail  to  point  the  way  to  an  author  in  the  courses 
taken  by  the  new  literature.  They  still  stand,  and 
writers  mindful  of  them  follow  well-worn  paths, 
attaining  canonical  excellences  and,  often,  notable 
successes;  but  the  appeal  of  these  writers  is  to 
readers  whose  taste  and  sensibility  are  confined  to 
traditional  grooves. 

The  extremely  modern  literature  and  the  advanced 
sensibility  in  which  it  finds  response  repudiate  the 
old  maxims.  Conscious  aspiration,  with  deliberate 
aims  and  methods,  is  not  nourished  in  this  atmos- 
phere. Doubtless  the  heart  of  youth  forever  echoes 
the  sentiment  expressed  in  Longfellow's  "  Excelsior" 
and  in  the  Virgilian  "Sic  itur  ad  astra,"  not  from 
any  desire  to  reach  the  highest  altitude  or,  still  less, 

260 


THE   INEXPLICABLE    IDEALISM 

any  astral  goal,  but  because  life  in  its  tension  is  up- 
lifting— a  rapture,  with  indefinite  sense  of  the  whith- 
erward. But  the  ascension  is  not  open  to  observa- 
tion, and  only  in  its  descent  is  there  an  expression 
of  life.  "The  banner  with  the  strange  device"  is 
not  in  distinct  evidence.  Isolated  grandeur  offers 
no  temptation  to  the  modern  writer,  whose  mind 
is  set  not  on  getting  up  in  the  world,  but  in  get- 
ting down  to  it  in  frank  and  neighborly  intimacy. 

This  disposition  does  not  make  for  that  kind  of 
thing  which  is  ineptly  called  the  democracy  of  lit- 
erature, but  for  a  new  and  genuine  aristocracy,  in 
which  mock  sovereignties  are  displaced  by  the  real. 
This  is  indeed  the  outcome  of  all  civilization — the 
emergence  of  a  natural  and  therefore  tolerable  aris- 
tocracy. What  was  formerly  styled  aristocracy  was 
but  a  vain  show,  dependent  upon  no  lasting  basis, 
but  upon  the  temporary  and  insecure  leverage  af- 
forded by  unnatural  social  and  political  conditions, 
which,  because  they  were  inevitable,  gave  it  its  sole 
justification — that  of  necessity;  and  of  this  the  most 
was  made,  if  not  the  best.  Of  the  whole  fabric  of 
ancient  and  mediaeval  aristocracy  all  that  remains 
is  what  was  created  by  the  imagination  in  art  and 
literature,  ennobled  by  what  was  best  and  sincerest 
in  life,  yet  warped  in  many  ways  through  associa- 
tion with  the  false  notions  of  a  distorted  humanity. 
Such  real  sovereignty  as  there  was  in  this  old  order 
was  vested  in  human  genius,  creating  in  life  that 

261 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE     ^ 

culture  of  the  mind  and  heart  which  was  to  develop 
a  new  humanity,  and  at  the  same  time  creating 
those  works  of  the  imagination  which,  surviving  the 
evanescent  phenomena  of  this  development,  remain 
to  us  as  its  lasting  memorials. 

This  everlasting  aristocracy  it  is  which,  after  so 
many  renascences,  has  emerged,  freed  from  its  old 
bonds  and  impediments,  for  the  leavening  and  up- 
lifting of  our  modern  life  through  the  sovereignty  of 
human  genius,  to  whose  meanings  and  powers  all 
our  progress  and  institutional  development  are  sub- 
sidiary. Why  should  we  call  it  a  democracy?  A 
free  and  intelligent  people  repudiates  demotic  pas- 
sions and  instincts,  which  really  had  more  force  in 
that  old  false  aristocracy  which  compelled  and  at  the 
same  time  was  obliged  to  conciliate  them;  in  a  free 
society  there  is  neither  opportunity  nor  plea  for  their 
exercise.  This  real  people — fortunately  a  majority 
of  the  whole  mass — is  not  merely  submissive  to  law 
and  order,  but,  through  a  more  or  less  deeply  de- 
veloped psychical  sensibility,  has  desires  and  inter- 
ests belonging  to  a  life  which  transcends  ordinary 
social,  political,  and  economic  functions,  and  which 
indeed  is  a  cultivated  garden  enclosed  within  the 
protecting  walls  of  inviolate  conventions.  In  this 
garden  of  human  culture  it  is  the  life  of  the  spirit 
which  abounds,  as  truly,  in  all  its  shapes,  the  crea- 
tion of  genius  as  are  the  products  of  the  imagination 
in  art  and  literature.  Civilization  exists  for  it,  and 
it  is  all  of  civilization  that  survives. 

362 


THE   INEXPLICABLE   IDEALISM 

In  this,  the  essential,  life  of  a  people,  the  term 
"equality"  has  no  meaning;  perfect  freedom  makes 
it  insignificant.  All  value  is  associated  with  some 
real  sovereignty.  Life  has  growth,  increase,  there- 
fore authority.  Living  excellence  and  charm  are 
compelling,  and  of  all  things  this  compulsion  is  most 
diligently  courted.  Whoever  can  impart  psychical 
inspiration  through  new  disclosure  of  truth,  in  vital 
erribodiment  or  interpretation,  and  not  as  mere  in- 
formation, is  eagerly  recognized  as  master.  Dis- 
cipleship  is  the  passion  of  cultivated  minds.  We  are 
proud  of  what  has  been  accomplished  for  general 
education,  but  the  culture  of  the  general  sensibility 
is  a  more  important  factor  in  our  modern  civiliza- 
tion and  determines  the  value  of  education  itself. 
One  may  be  educated  to  the  extreme  point  of  ef- 
ficiency in  every  department  of  knowledge  and  not 
have  this  culture — not  have  real  knowledge,  real 
thinking  or  real  feeling,  or  that  higher  curiosity 
which  creates  the  zest  for  new  discovery,  new  ro- 
mance, new  faith  and  hope.  On  the  other  hand,  one 
may  have  this  culture  with  very  little  of  what  is 
commonly  called  education  beyond  the  ability  to 
read.  The  time  was  when  the  chief  motive  for  teach- 
ing children  their  letters  was  to  enable  them  to  read 
the  English  Bible ;  what  was  not  unwisely  considered 
the  most  important  channel  of  culture  was  thus  laid 
open.  In  our  day  this  simple  ability  to  read  will 
bring  any  mind,  whose  higher  curiosity  is  awakened, 
into  all  the  main  currents  of  human  thought  and 

263 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

feeling,  and  may  give  it  satisfactions  not  experienced 
by  the  most  erudite,  whose  studies  do  not  promote 
the  creations  of  genius  or  their  comprehension. 

If  we  go  back,  and  it  is  not  so  very  far  back,  to 
the  time  when  peoples  were  illiterate,  we  find  no  such 
spontaneously  determined  popular  sensibility,  none 
that  we  could  properly  call  psychical.  The  com- 
munications of  genius  were  quite  entirely  confined 
to  impressions  conveyed  by  art.  The  sovereignty 
of  genius  was  itself  limited  by  its  alliance  with  other 
and  arbitrary  sovereignties,  and  it  was  popularly 
accepted  along  with  these  as  part  of  the  imposing 
and  majestic  pomp  of  that  old  order  of  humanity. 
Then  came  the  drama — at  first  as  a  kind  of  literature 
for  the  illiterate — exaggerating  every  feature  of  the 
masquerade,  and  finally,  when  there  was  an  audience 
for  it,  literature  itself,  which  now  has  come  to  be  the 
readiest  and  most  significant  means  for  the  popular 
expression  of  genius.  Discipleship  has  now  a  new 
meaning — that  of  minds  moved  from  their  own 
centres,  rejecting  imposition,  seeking  the  masters 
of  a  new  magic  whereby  the  plain  things  of  life  are 
invested  with  their  native  nobility. 

The  older  arts  sought  detachment  from  life,  a 
distinct  place  apart,  and  a  duration  boldly  con- 
trasting with  life's  brevity.  Imaginative  literature 
in  its  new  forms,  like  music,  in  its  later  development, 
comes  nearer  to  life — a  spontaneous  communication, 
as  frank,  intimate,  and  pervasive  as  the  sunlight. 

264 


THE   INEXPLICABLE   IDEALISM 

It  assumes  no  fixed  memorial  shape  and  has  no 
alliance  with  traditions  to  help  it  on  to  another 
generation.  This  is  one  of  those  characteristics  of 
modern  realism  which  seem  to  justify  the  academic 
Philistine's  oft-repeated  allusions  to  the  mediocrity 
of  our  current  literature. 

Genius  in  literature  has  come  to  be  just  what  it  is 
in  that  portion  of  our  life  which  may  be  called  "  the 
good  part,"  since  it  is  not  "troubled  about  many 
things"  that  present  themselves  as  problems  in  the 
manifold  relations  of  human  existence.  Imaginative 
literature  has  a  closer  intimacy  with  our  essential 
life  through  its  renunciation  of  the  argumentative 
and  of  any  distinctively  teaching  or  preaching 
function,  confining  itself  to  the  embodiment  and 
interpretation  of  life.  As  in  the  climbing  of  genius 
there  is  no  conscious  aspiration  toward  the  "life 
sublime,"  so  in  its  genial  precipitation  its  expression 
is  simple  bounty  rather  than  conscious  ministration. 

Human  existence  forces  upon  our  observation 
numberless  needs  and  miseries  appealing  to  our 
sympathies,  but  the  ministration  to  these  in  perfect 
good- will  falls  far  short  of  any  positive  expression  of 
life  in  that  world  where  the  Humanities  transcend 
humanitarianism.  It  is  a  limitation  of  love  to  meet 
only  need,  use,  and  the  obligation  of  pity.  Even 
martyrdom  seemed  to  St.  Paul  a  limitation.  On 
the  other  hand,  vital  altruism,  the  sense  of  universal 
kinship,  is  the  ground  of  all  creative  communication 
and  expands  to  the  full  compass  of  its  meaning. 

265 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

Nothing  is  more  distinctive  of  modern  life  and 
literature  than  its  sympathetic  quality,  which  has 
its  pure  and  natural  manifestation  as  elicited  by  the 
pathos  inevitable  to  a  mortal  and  fallible  race  rather 
than  by  singular  instances  of  suffering,  cruelty,  or 
crime.  But  the  sympathy  most  characteristic  of 
the  bounty  of  genius  is  that  of  comprehension, 
whether  the  conditions  involved  be  happy  or  pain- 
ful. Happiness,  ease,  comfortableness — these  are 
not  the  qualities  of  life  which  have  imaginative 
values,  nor  do  such  values  inhere  in  the  want, 
wretchedness,  and  deformity  which  excite  com- 
miseration. The  concern  of  genius  is  with  the  life 
of  the  spirit  in  its  reaction  upon  the  world — upon 
every  sort  of  conditions — whereby  it  comes  into  its 
own  psychical  kingdom  of  grace,  play,  and  humor, 
mingled  as  these  must  be  in  a  texture  which  is  above 
all  things  simply  human,  with  the  joys  and  pains 
which  have  run  like  bright  and  purple  threads 
through  every  web  woven  by  the  imagination  from 
the  beginning.  But,  as  expressing  the  bounty  of 
genius,  there  must  be  the  grace,  the  play,  and  the 
humor.  Take  these  out  of  life  and  literature,  and 
the  whole  field  falls  into  sterility — there  is  no  garden. 

Grace,  we  say,  rather  than  beauty,  for  the  latter 
term  is  often  misleading  in  its  suggestions,  indicating 
some  outward  perfection  rather  than  a  spiritual 
quality.  Too  often  this  outward  perfection  has  no 
more  spiritual  significance  in  our  conception  of  char- 

266 


THE   INEXPLICABLK   IDEALISM 

acter  than  it  would  have  in  our  regard  of  physical 
features,  as  when  we  think  a  life  beautiful  because 
of  its  faultless  symmetry  from  a  formally  moral 
point  of  view — a  symmetry  which  completely  masks 
the  personality.  Humanity  is  so  inevitably  fallible 
that  any  formal  perfection  seems  unhuman.  The 
faltering  note  appeals. 

The  avoidance  of  formal  perfection  is  a  distinctive 
mark  of  modernity  in  literature.  It  is  because  of  a 
revolt  from  regularity  of  measure  that  prose  is  de- 
veloped in  our  time  rather  than  poetry.  The  ten- 
dency is  more  evident  in  the  form  and  structure  of 
literature  than  in  its  themes.  Always  poetry  and 
romance  have  depended  upon  human  fallibility  for 
their  poignant  interest.  It  is  true  that  in  a  good 
deal  of  recent  fiction  the  departure  from  beautiful 
conditions  has  passed  to  the  opposite  extreme,  to 
the  portrayal  of  ugliness,  and,  while  malignant 
motives  have  been  banished,  excessive  stress  has 
been  laid  upon  the  faultful  side  of  human  nature. 
But  we  are  more  impressed  by  the  general  tendency 
of  writers,  so  deep  seated  that  it  seems  an  instinct, 
to  abjure  forms  of  excellence  which  only  a  genera- 
tion ago  were  held  to  be  canonically  imperative. 

One  important  feature  of  this  change  in  fiction  is 
the  abandonment  of  elaboration  in  plot  and  in  style. 
The  structure  of  a  story  has  lost  the  prominence 
formerly  given  it,  is  hidden  as  far  as  possible  from 
observation.  The  reader  does  not  expect,  indeed 
he  resents  any  appearance  of,  a  contrived  arrange- 

267 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

ment  of  circumstances  to  produce  a  dramatic  effect ; 
he  experiences  not  only  disillusion,  but  a  kind  of 
humiliation,  as  if  he  had  been  played  upon.  He 
would  rather  forego  the  satisfaction  of  even  agree- 
able surprises  and  happy  conclusions  than  that 
these  should  be  mechanically  brought  about,  and  he 
certainly  will  not  forgive  the  writer  any  arbitrary 
infliction  of  torture,  whatever  ingeniously  devised 
relief  may  be  held  in  waiting.  The  complete  and 
perfect  arrangement,  once  absolutely  demanded  in 
the  story  as  in  the  play,  now  suggests  unreality. 
It  is  the  insistence  upon  reality  which  has  effected 
the  transformation  in  fiction  and  which  in  literature 
generally  has  led  to  the  rejection  of  the  old-fashioned 
rhetorical  elegances  of  expression.  Spontaneity  and 
reality  are  inseparable. 

It  is  just  here  that  play  and  humor,  as  main 
characteristics  of  modern  genius,  have  disclosed  their 
imaginative  values  in  the  new  realism.  What  we 
have  called  "the  good  part"  of  life,  its  essential 
field,  is  independent  of  all  studies,  problems,  or  dis- 
puted questions.  Here  humanity  is  one  with  nat- 
ure, having  no  offices,  but  an  infinite  variety  of 
manifestations  that  cannot  be  defined  in  terms  ap- 
plicable to  those  efforts  and  economies  which  we 
usually  style  the  serious  business  of  life.  Genius 
here,  in  its  embodiments  and  interpretations,  oc- 
cupies no  transcendental  field  lifted  above  common 
life;  it  is  that  life,  indeed,  with  which  it  is  wholly 

268 


THE   INHXPLICABLE   IDEALISM 

concerned — with  all  of  it,  in  its  real  meanings  and 
natural  procedure,  for  its  true  representation,  not 
for  its  explication,  and  for  the  disclosure  of  its  ever 
freshly  emergent  variations  in  the  evolution  of 
spiritual  physiognomy,  thought,  and  feeling:  all  in 
the  familiar  earthly  setting  and  shot  through  with 
the  pains  and  delights  naturally  incident  to  human 
earthly  existence.  The  play  is  not  for  levity,  nor 
the  humor  for  risibility — both  are  implications  of  a 
real  and  spontaneous  human  nature. 

The  new  fiction  is,  therefore,  so  intimately  en- 
gaged with  life  in  its  natural  manifestations,  lifted 
by  culture  to  a  psychical  plane,  that  its  old  devices 
are  not  only  no  longer  necessary,  but  are  impertinent 
and  meaningless.  The  lack  of  formal  completeness 
in  structural  elaboration  is  an  excellence  rather  than 
a  defect ;  and  this  passing  of  the  planned  scheme  has 
given  the  really  significant  short  story  a  new  pre- 
cedence. The  novel  must  justify  its  larger  compass, 
not  by  its  intricacies  and  complications,  but  by  its 
larger  psychical  scope.  The  old  fashion  of  extend- 
ing a  story  to  the  dimension  of  a  novel,  through  a 
more  or  less  arbitrary  elaboration  of  the  plot  or 
multiplication  of  characters  and  situations,  is  no 
longer  tolerated  by  cultivated  readers. 

What  especially  forces  itself  upon  our  considera- 
tion is  the  fact  that  genius  is  creative  not  merely  in 
art  and  literature,  but,  first  of  all  and  most  of  all,  in 
life — not  in  the  life  of  the  few,  but  of  the  many; 
not  in  the  life  of  chivalry,  of  the  soldier,  of  any 

269 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

conspicuously  great  hero,  but  in  plain  human  lives. 
To  be  plainly  human  means  a  great  deal  in  the  way 
of  culture.  It  is  impossible  to  the  unthinking  and 
even  more  impossible  to  the  sophisticated.  It  is 
the  condition  only  of  those  whose  minds  have  been 
swept  clear  of  old  idols  by  the  main  currents  of 
modern  thought,  and  that  yield  no  tribute  to  the 
mock-heroic  and  the  mock-sublime.  Thus  there 
has  come  to  be  a  large  body  of  plain  people  who  are 
simply  human  and  whose  lives  are  real.  It  is  in 
these  real  lives  alone  that  genius  finds  the  fertile 
ground  for  its  garden  of  the  Humanities.  Here 
grace,  play,  and  humor  abound.  Genius  in  litera- 
ture is  not  the  reflection  of  this  botmty,  but  its  ex- 
press manifestation. 

We  apprehend  the  reality  of  life  in  the  play  of  it 
rather  than  in  what  we  call  its  serious  business. 
Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life,"  striking  the  serious 
note,  fell  far  short  of  the  true  conception.  A  con- 
temporary of  the  poet,  Horace  Bushnell,  then,  next 
to  Emerson,  the  most  original  of  American  thinkers, 
in  his  Phi  Beta  Kappa  oration  at  Harvard,  sixty 
years  ago,  rose  to  a  higher  note,  when  he  said  that 
all  work  was  for  an  end  while  play  was  an  end  in 
itself — that  play  was  the  highest  exercise  and  chief 
end  of  man. 

There  was  reality  of  life  in  the  old  order — the  play 
and  humor  of  it,  therefore;  more  always  in  the  life 
of  the  ignorant  Barbarian  than  in  that  of  the  sophis- 
ticated Philistine.     But  in  our  day  the  reality  has 

270 


THE   INEXPLICABLE   IDEALISM 

an  unmasked,  undistorted  expression,  in  a  clear  and 
not  in  a  prismatically  colored  atmosphere.  Sophis- 
tication seems  to  be  a  middle  world,  perhaps  we  may 
call  it  purgatorial,  through  which  humanity  must 
pass  before  it  can  attain  spiritual  freedom — that  is, 
the  free  play  of  spontaneous  being,  action,  and 
feeling.  Reality  in  this  freedom  is  the  ground  of  a 
true  idealism.  Ilere  the  good  is  not  relative — good 
for  something — -nor  absolute,  since  it  is  not  an 
abstract  quality,  but  simple  goodness  and,  like  the 
beautiful  and  true,  inexplicable,  with  all  reason  in  it 
but  no  reason  for  it. 

We  are  baffled  when  we  seek  explanations  of  cer- 
tain aspects  of  modem  life  which  seem  to  our  com- 
mon-sense whimsical  and  absurd.  Why  do  hard- 
working parents  send  their  daughters  to  the  piano 
instead  of  the  kitchen  and  sacrifice  themselves  to 
give  their  sons  respite  from  drudgery?  It  is  not 
mere  fondness,  nor  is  it  simply  ambition.  A  psy- 
chical temptation  which  did  not  appeal  to  older  gen- 
erations allures  to  life  worth  living  for  itself — to  the 
inexplicable  idealism. 

Some  ineffable,  undefinable  charm  invites  us  all. 
Native  to  life,  whatever  the  conditions,  it  has  found 
in  OUT  modern  life  the  conditions  for  its  full  mastery 
and  bounteous  expression.  It  has  mastered  our 
literature,  giving  it  a  new  investiture,  another  art, 
too  natural  to  seem  great. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    NEW    ART   OF    PROSE 

WE  speak  in  a  general  way  of  the  art  of 
prose  literature  without  being  able  to  say- 
just  what  it  is,  and  the  better  the  litera- 
ture the  more  difficult  it  is  to  define  the  art  of  it. 
The  ars  poetica  is  instantly  intelligible,  at  least  in 
its  outward  forms.  The  imaginative  values  which 
we  demand  of  the  poet  belong  also  to  prose;  but  in 
the  modem  novel  or  essay  of  the  highest  imagina- 
tive order  we  find  nothing  that  exactly  corresponds 
to  those  formal  obligations  which  the  poet,  the 
sculptor,  or  the  painter  cannot  escape.  In  what 
sense,  then,  is  modem  imaginative  prose  an  art  ? 

Surely,  we  think,  there  must  be  an  art  of  fiction, 
and  we  are  reassured  of  this  by  several  able  treatises 
in  which  the  development  of  this  art  has  been  traced 
from  the  earliest  story  writing  to  the  novel  of  our 
own  time.  But,  whatever  light  these  careful  anal- 
yses may  throw  upon  the  course  and  progress  of 
fiction,  they  do  not  help  us  in  those  extremely  mod- 
em instances  of  writers  who  have  discarded  all  the 
canons  that  were  formerly  considered  indispensable 

272 


THE   NEW   ART   OF    PROSE 

to  the  art.  Even  as  to  past  examples,  what  is  pre- 
sented in  such  works  is  not  their  art,  but  their  place 
in  the  course  of  a  merely  technical  development. 
,.li  we  say  that  it  is  imaginative  values  which  con- 
stitute the  art  of  any  work,  we  may  be  on  the  right 
track  if  we  are  able  to  discern  just  what  kind  of 
imaginative  values  distinguishes  the  prose  of  to-day 
not  only  from  that  of  any  other  period,  but  from  all 
creative  work  in  earlier  times  which  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  call  art.  For  it  has  been  the  fashion 
to  think  of  art  as  something  separate  from  life.  In 
the  plastic  arts,  in  painting,  and  in  instrumental 
music,  the  artist  worked  in  alia  materia,  in  marble, 
color,  and  tone;  but  this  difference  implied  no  con- 
tempt of  life  any  more  than  man's  other  uses  of 
Nature  did — it  was  but  the  mastery  of  materials  for 
the  expression  of  his  creative  imagination,  a  rein- 
forcement of  human  possibilities,  an  expansion  of 
the  scope  of  art  beyond  the  limit  of  bodily  expression 
in  dance  and  song  and  in  dramatic  representation. 

So  far  art  would  seem  to  ha\e  been  an  enhance- 
ment of  life,  an  outward  translation  of  its  tension. 
It  is  when  we  regard  the  theme  that  we  see  how  life 
was  belittled  in  the  presence  of  the  old  art,  dwarfed 
by  alien  grandeurs,  eclipsed  by  an  unnatural  radi- 
ance, overmastered  by  a  remote  tension.  The  earli- 
est choric  and  lyric  forms  had  in  their  \'iolent  ecstasy 
been  linked  with  the  terrible  spells  of  superstition. 
In  later  creations  of  his  imagination  man  was  for- 
ever projecting  a  monstrous  superman  which  out- 

273 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

faced  and  overshadowed  him.  In  the  more  subdued 
embodiments  of  Hellenic  art  and  in  those  of  the  later 
art  which  was  of  Hellenic  inspiration,  while  there 
was  a  freer  play  of  human  genius  and  more  perfect 
expression  of  the  beautiful,  associated,  at  least  in 
sculpture,  with  the  human  form,  still  in  the  theme 
the  superhuman  guise  was  dominant;  gods  and 
demigods  strode  alongside  man  and,  in  stature  and 
deed,  overtopped  him. 

In  the  Iliad  mortals  are  but  the  tools  of  the  gods. 
Homer  presents  a  few  plainly  human  groups,  and 
from  his  description  of  Achilles'  shield  we  may  in- 
fer that  in  relief  work  of  that  kind  representations  of 
the  familiar  scenes  of  every-day  life  were  not  un- 
common. It  is  true,  too,  that  the  gods  as  portrayed 
by  Homer  are  themselves  swayed  by  human  passions 
and  subject  to  human  frailties,  but  this  is  mere 
mock-humanity.  In  the  whole  range  of  ancient  and 
medieval  art,  including  what  is  classed  as  the  great- 
est poetry,  from  Homer  to  Milton,  the  projections 
of  the  imagination  are  not  in  simply  human  terms 
and  do  not  disclose  simply  human  values. 

The  unhuman  and  superhuman  disguises,  reflect- 
ing distempers  of  thought,  fancy,  and  feeling,  make 
the  old  arts  and  poetry  seem  alien  to  us.  We  may 
deliberately  build  a  new  cathedral,  but,  after  all,  it 
is  an  anachronism.  We  cannot  revive  the  spirit 
that  inevitably  expressed  itself  in  the  erection  of 
these  edifices,  which  to  mediaeval  peoples  were  their 
homes  more  intimately  in  thought  and  feeling  than 

274 


THE    NEW    ART   OF   PROSE 

were  the  houses  in  which  they  dwelt.  The  master- 
pieces of  mediaeval  painting  appealed  to  souls  pre- 
occupied by  a  strange  other-worldliness,  and  por- 
trayed humanity  under  stresses  only  monstrously 
imaginable.  These  are  far  away  from  us,  who  are 
seeking  to  know  what  our  world  really  means  for  us 
in  all  its  possibilities  and  what  are  the  real  values 
of  human  existence.  A  painting  like  Michelangelo's 
"Last  Judgment"  is  as  impossible  now  as  a  poem 
like  "Paradise  Lost." 

It  is  not  strange  that  we  should  turn  aversely 
from  the  old  art — not  from  its  beauty  and  formal 
excellence,  which  have  an  everlasting  appeal  to 
aesthetic  sensibility,  but  from  its  meanings,  which 
seem  to  us  so  remote  from  reality.  We  are  haunted 
by  its  beauty,  the  embodiments  of  which  we  cherish 
— repeating  eclectically  old  forms  of  architecture  in 
our  own,  gathering  together  in  galleries  the  originals 
or  copies  of  old  statues,  friezes,  and  paintings — to 
awaken  or  keep  alive  the  sense  of  the  beautiful  in 
every  new  generation.  The  study  of  these  embodi- 
ments, however  divorced  they  may  have  been  from 
all  that  seems  to  us  really  significant  in  human  life, 
is  an  important  part  of  our  study  of  the  Humanities. 
The  evolution  of  the  creative  imagination  is  indeed 
paramount  above  all  else  in  human  history  in  its 
appeal  to  our  intellectual  interest;  apart  from  what 
it  is  as  a  disclosure  of  genius,  it  registers  civilization. 

Confining  ourselves  to  the  extremely  modem  pe- 
riod which  is  identical  with  the  new  psychical  era, 

275 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

we  find  that  there  is  a  new  art  as  well  as  a  new  litera- 
ture. The  plastic  arts  reached  their  highest  per- 
fection centuries  ago,  and  we  only  repeat  old  forms 
in  fresh  combinations.  But  painting  has  had  its 
modem  transformation  along  the  same  lines  as  lit- 
erature, abandoning  traditional  disguises  and  sym- 
bols. The  impressionistic  tendency  prevailed  at  the 
same  time  in  painting  as  in  poetry,  fiction,  and  other 
forms  of  imaginative  prose ;  and  both  in  art  and  liter- 
ature the  tendency  persisted  in  so  far  as  it  yielded 
true  imaginative  values.  The  art  of  painting  has 
been  applied  to  the  interpretation  of  the  past  during 
the  last  two  generations  with  as  much  fidelity  and 
devotion  to  the  truth  as  the  best  novelists  have 
shown  in  that  field.  Abbey  is  as  painstaking  as 
Hewlett,  and  his  genius  is  as  spontaneous.  Land- 
scape-painting is  giving  Nature  her  true  investiture 
— that  which  is  purely  her  own — ^not  merely  follow- 
ing pre-Raphaelite  suggestion.  The  work  is  crea- 
tive, discerning  in  things  their  soul  and  tempera- 
ment, unveiling  the  charais  that  Nature  woos  us  by. 
Painting  has  forsworn  allegory;  and  religious  sub- 
jects are  no  longer  treated  symbolically. 

The  drama  considered  as  an  art — that  is,  some- 
thing for  stage  representation — has  won  its  recent 
distinctions  in  the  lines  of  the  new  realism. 

It  may  perhaps  be  fairly  claimed  that  in  painting, 
the  drama,  and  poetry  certain  features  distinctive 
to  modem  prose  were  first  foreshadowed — that  the 
transformation  in  these  arts,  involving  the  divesti- 

276 


THE   NEW   ART   OF   PROSE 

ture  of  old  fashions  and  the  prophetic  intimations  of 
a  psychical  renascence,  was  going  on  long  before  it 
was  apparent  in  fiction.  This  is  undoubtedly  true 
in  the  case  of  poetry.  The  relation  of  Wordsworth 
to  all  that  we  recognize  as  modernity  was  more  di- 
rect and  intimate  than  that  of  any  novelist  in  his 
generation.  Browning  was  the  chief  inspirer  of  the 
great  prose  writers  of  the  last  fifty  years.  The  in- 
fluence of  these  poets  is  felt  more  in  prose  than  in 
poetry.  That  is  the  significant  fact,  showing  that 
the  tendencies  they  intimated  naturally  found  a 
freer  and  ampler  expression  in  prose  than  in  their 
own  field  of  art.  If  poetry,  because  of  its  form,  has 
a  recognized  limitation,  the  representative  arts  are 
still  more  restricted. 

More  than  any  other  art,  music,  in  its  modem  de- 
velopment, aligns  itself  with  the  imaginative  prose 
literature  of  the  present  era.  Of  course  there  can 
be  no  direct  comparison  between  these  so  different 
kinds  of  expression;  but  we  think  of  music  along 
with  literature  because  of  the  pervasive  intimacy  of 
both  in  our  modem  life  and  culture.  It  seems  as  if 
music  were  forever  striving  to  become  articulate, 
and  as  if  literature,  in  its  furthest  reaches,  sought 
to  express  meanings  beyond  the  range  of  any  vo- 
cabulary. While  music  is  under  an  obligation  more 
precise  than  that  of  any  other  art — one  that  is  exact- 
ly mathematical — yet,  because  it  inhabits  not  space 
but  time,  it  seems  to  escape  definite  confinement. 
It  can  be  communicated  by  printed  signs,  carrying 

277 


THE  NEW  LITERATURE 

in  these  its  exact  architecture,  and  be  as  widely  re- 
produced as  any  form  of  pubHcation,  suffering  no 
such  modification  of  values  as  is  incident  to  the  re- 
production of  painting.  It  has  varying  degrees  of 
exaltation,  but  it  has  this  advantage  over  literature 
and  every  other  form  of  artistic  expression,  that  it 
can  never  be  degrading.  Its  development,  which 
has  been  alongside  that  of  modem  prose,  has  shown 
a  like  variety  and  amplitude  of  expression,  and  in 
each  the  appeal  is  more  and  more  of  a  psychical 
character,  in  a  region  of  sensibility  where  meaning 
and  feeling  are  inseparably  blended,  without  notional 
alloy.  The  transformation  in  the  art  of  music  from 
its  earliest  to  its  present  appeal  has  been  concurrent 
with  that  of  human  sensibility  itself.  From  its  old 
obsession  of  the  feet  it  has  become  a  modest  and 
even  tentative  seizure  of  us,  taking  us  as  thought 
takes  us,  lingeringly,  hesitantly,  waiting  upon  our 
souls.  Is  it  not  in  this  way  that  our  best  prose  novel 
and  essay  appeal  to  us  ? 

The  art  of  pictorial  illustration  in  black  and  white, 
while  it  has  achieved  notable  triumphs,  especially  in 
periodical  literature,  in  the  graphic  representation 
of  our  every-day  life,  and  in  sketches  of  travel,  has 
done  its  best  for  fiction,  in  the  portraiture  of  char- 
acter, giving  extreme  visualization  to  the  imagina- 
tive creations  of  the  novelist.  The  artists  who  have 
succeeded  Cruikshank,  Tenniel,  Doyle,  Du  Maurier, 
and  Leech,  and  whose  work  is  so  familiar  to  the 
readers  of  our  foremost  illustrated  magazines,  have 

278 


THE   NEW   ART   OF   PROSE 

done  their  part  toward  a  plainly  human  portraiture 
of  life,  and  they  have  not  been  merely  the  followers 
of  writers  in  this  advance.  They  might,  perhaps, 
justly  claim  that  they  led  the  way — that  they  were 
the  first  to  abjure  insipid  types  of  merely  physical 
beauty,  the  first  to  depend  confidently  upon  un- 
literary  intentions  and  values;  and  this  confident 
dependence  is  the  chief  distinction  of  the  best  con- 
temporary fiction. 

While  a  general,  or  at  least  casual,  survey  of  the 
art  of  the  past  brings  vividly  before  us  features  and 
associations  which  are  alien  to  us,  and  thus  likely  to 
beget  aversion,  especially  when  we  reflect  upon  the 
remoteness  of  this  old  art  from  the  plain  realities  of 
human  life,  yet  our  closer  regard  shows  a  modem 
transformation — which  is,  after  all,  only  a  marvel- 
lous sequel  of  less  striking  changes  that  were  going 
on  from  the  beginning  of  civilization — a  transforma- 
tion like  that  which  has  been  effected  in  human  life 
itself;  and  we  see  that  we  have  changed,  and  art 
with  us — that  we  have  a  new  art  because  we  have  a 
new  humanity.  The  earlier  projections  of  the  im- 
agination reflected  life,  but  with  refraction,  as  in  a 
mirage,  because  life  itself  had  not  found  its  centre 
and  therefore  had  not  attained  its  true  realization; 
thus  it  must  have  had  its  tension  and  exaltation  out- 
side of  itself,  taking,  in  all  forms  of  art,  shapes  that 
were  magnificent  and  imposing  but  unreal.  Now 
that  life  has  come  home,  art  is  homely. 

So,  after  this  brief  survey  of  those  kinds  of  crea- 

279 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

tive  work  which  it  has  been  the  universal  custom 
to  call  the  fine  arts,  and  the  consideration  of  that 
radical  transformation  whereby  these  arts  have  re- 
sponded to  our  modern  psychical  sensibility,  thus 
becoming  an  intimate  part  of  our  present  culture, 
we  come  back  to  our  original  question :  In  what  sense 
is  the  imaginative  prose  of  to-day  an  art? 

If  we  were  considering  the  fiction,  the  histories, 
and  the  interpretative  essay  before  the  middle  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  we  should  find  very  little  to 
even  suggest  such  an  inquiry,  and  the  little  we  might 
find — say,  in  Addison  and  Steele,  in  Lamb,  Hazlitt, 
and  De  Quincey — would  be  so  different  from  our  new 
literature,  so  allied  to  an  older  order  by  formal  ele- 
gances or  rhetorical  devices  of  style,  as  to  be  hardly 
pertinent  to  our  immediate  purpose.  It  would  not 
occur  to  any  critic  to  speak  of  the  art  of  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels.  Down  to  the  Victorian  era,  and  in  the 
case  of  very  much  of  the  fiction  of  that  era,  the 
novelist  was  limited — even  Jane  Austen  was — by  the 
superficiality,  or,  v/e  might  better  say,  the  externality 
of  the  theme;  the  treatment  was  of  human  life,  but 
confined  to  obvious  features,  traits,  and  situations. 
There  is  the  same  style  of  treatment  in  a  good  deal 
of  contemporary  fiction,  a  theatrical  exaggeration 
of  external  features  often  serving  for  effectiveness 
and  rather  cheap  entertainment.  It  may  be  called 
art,  but  it  is  a  poor  species  of  that  old  art  which  de- 
pended for  its  effect  upon  false  similitudes. 

When  we  speak  of  the  art  of  Thomas  Hardy,  of 

280 


THH    NEW    ART   OF   PROSE 

Conrad,  of  Plichens,  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  we 
mean  something  quite  different — something  so  un- 
like the  older  art  that  wc  must  say  that  either  it  is 
not  art  at  all  or  a  wholly  unprecedented  art. 

The  very  content  of  the  art,  the  kind  of  human 
phenomena  emerging  at  the  stage  of  psychical  evo- 
lution which  we  have  reached,  is  unprecedented. 
All  the  old  signs  fail  us;  the  well-woni  tokens  have 
given  place  to  an  ever-fresh  coinage.  The  creations 
of  the  human  spirit  are  wholly  its  own,  bom  of  it, 
not  made  in  conformity  with  any  logical  proposition 
or  mental  notion,  and  they  bear  no  stamp  of  ex- 
traneous authority ;  whatever  of  divinity  they  may 
have  is  in  their  purely  human  genesis.  The  whole 
meaning  of  that  designation — "the  son  of  man" — is 
restored  to  a  humanity  which  nearly  two  thousand 
years  after  the  advent  of  the  Gospel  has  come  to 
the  worldly  instead  of  the  other-worldly  or  saintly 
acceptance  of  it.  "The  fruits  of  the  spirit"  are 
not  limited,  as  to  their  nature  or  their  scope,  by 
the  narrow  definition  imposed  by  puritanical  or  any 
other  arbitrary  judgment  as  to  what  is  the  chief 
end  of  man. 

If  we  were  going  on  in  the  old  way,  making  much 
of  myth  and  of  traditional  fancies  and  symbols  and 
customs,  seeking  dramatic  effects  that  are  only  out- 
wardly impressive,  courting  empty  but  picturesque 
splendors,  our  imaginative  literature  would  still  con- 
tinue to  create  the  art  which  has  always  been  asso- 
ciated with  a  distorted  similitude  of  life.     But  this  is 

281 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

not  the  gait  of  that  humanity  which,  almost  within 
the  limit  of  two  generations,  has  emerged,  taking  its 
own  shape  and  growing  into  its  full  stature  on  the 
psychical  plane,  with  interests  and  desires  that  find 
satisfaction  only  in  humanly  real  issues  and  values. 

In  the  vast  field  thus  opened  for  a  new  employment 
of  the  imagination  in  the  embodiment  and  interpre- 
tation of  a  real  world  and  a  real  humanity,  our  prose 
literature  most  intimately  and  perv-asively  appeals 
to  the  newly  awakened  sensibility.  It  deals  with 
phenomena  so  different  from  those  which  engaged 
the  genius  of  earlier  times  that  old  canons  have  gone 
meaningless  as  the  old  fashions  have  become  obso- 
lete. The  writer  stands  so  near  to  life  that  his  im- 
agination takes  the  tension  native  to  that  life,  along 
with  its  real  feeling,  shape,  color,  and  rhythm.  This 
is  the  new  art  of  prose. 

But  apart  from  this  general  designation  of  the 
art  there  is  also  to  be  considered  that  which"  gives 
it  its  infinite  diversity  through  the  individual  genius 
of  the  writers.  The  new  conditions,  unlike  the  old, 
break  up  conformity  and  compel  individuality  of 
expression.  Our  writers  are  not  grouped  in  classes 
or  schools.  Whatever  characteristics  they  have  in 
common  belong  to  the  new  attitude  of  literature 
toward  life  and  the  world;  but  each  one  sees  with 
his  own  vision  and  according  to  his  native  powers, 
his  comprehending  heart  and  feeling  mind.  Here 
we  touch  upon  undefinable  possibilities. 

Prose  has  this  advantage  over  other  arts,  that 

282 


THE   NEW   ART   OF    PROSE 

while  these  can  exist  only  as  each  meets  its  formal 
obligation,  it  alone  can  dispense  with  the  rigid  forms 
of  outward  tension  without  disintegration.  In  this 
relaxation  lurks  also  its  peril;  disintegration  lies  in 
wait  for  it,  through  the  loss  of  vital  tension — of  the 
inward  pulse,  tone,  vibrancy,  which  belong  to  life. 
Another  danger  is  in  the  treachery  of  its  medium  of 
expression — the  ease  with  which  a  word  or  a  phrase, 
under  the  misguidance  of  a  too  ready  fancy,  may 
blur  or  displace  reality  —  the  facile  generalization 
which  blots  out  the  values  of  the  particular. 

The  novelist,  while  avoiding  refraction  in  his  rep- 
resentation of  life,  m.ust  give  objectively  the  reflec- 
tion, however  subjective  his  impression,  and,  though 
shunning  the  stress  of  the  theatrical  and  the  pict- 
uresque, must  present  the  dramatic  movement  and 
picture,  learning  from  the  old  masters  clear  and  firm 
delineation,  lest  his  work  seem  less  real  than  theirs. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PROSPECT    OF    IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

THE  distinction  made  by  De  Quincey  between 
the  literature  of  power  and  that  of  knowl- 
edge— that  is,  of  information — though  often 
quoted  by  writers  of  to-day,  was  more  pertinent  to  his 
own  generation  than  to  ours.  He  began  his  literary 
career  when  in  poetry  a  new  creative  era  was  at  its 
height,  while  in  prose  the  didactic  habit  of  the  pre- 
ceding century  still  persisted,  especially  in  the  writ- 
ings of  philosophers  and  men  of  science,  whose  spec- 
ulations and  discoveries  were  conveyed  in  strictly 
formal  terms  as  much  in  contrast  with  the  quaint  and 
imaginative  discursions  of  Bacon  and  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  three  centuries  earlier,  as  with  the  illu- 
minative expositions  of  Clerk- Maxwell,  Faraday, 
Tyndall,  and  Herbert  Spencer  a  generation  later. 
With  the  writers  of  our  own  time  in  the  same  field, 
such  as  John  Fiske  and  William  James,  the  contrast 
is  still  more  striking. 

It  would  never  occur  to  us  to  call  a  formal  treatise 
literature  in  any  sense.  Yet  analysis,  description, 
scientific  exposition,  criticism,  and  narrative,  which, 

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PROSPECT   OF   IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

as  formally  presented,  do  not  belong  to  literature, 
may  by  imaginative  power  and  insight  be  lifted  to 
that  dignity,  while  the  novel,  which  ought  always 
to  have  that  exaltation,  may  be  an  utterly  feeble 
and  insignificant  production,  or,  even  if  interesting 
and  important  in  its  matter,  being  devoid  of  imag- 
ination, may  fall  short  of  the  distinction. 

There  is  really  no  literature  but  the  literature  of 
power,  which  in  our  day  covers  an  immense  and 
varied  field.  The  thoughtful  reader  finds  himself 
engaged,  during  every  waking  moment  he  can 
spare  for  books  and  periodicals,  by  some  embodi- 
ment or  interpretation  of  life  which  has  imagina- 
tive value,  appealing  to  his  higher  curiosity  and  to 
his  most  widely  varied  tastes.  His  newspaper  is 
not  merely  a  chronicle;  it  charges  the  day's  doings 
with  their  meaning  and  tendency,  investing  incident 
and  circumstance  with  the  guise  of  fancy  and  humor ; 
even  the  reporter — who  may  be  a  budding  novelist 
— does  not  fail  of  the  picture;  and  well-equipped 
critics  disclose  with  varying  degree  of  charm  the 
freshly  emergent  novelties  in  science,  literature,  so- 
ciety, art,  and  even  archaeology.  His  magazines, 
of  which  there  are  so  many,  and  so  many  that  are 
good,  deepen  the  best  of  these  satisfactions  and 
offer  him,  in  fiction  and  essay,  a  store  of  imaginative 
literature,  richer,  more  diversified,  and  of  a  higher 
order  than  was  ever  before  thus  current  in  the  world. 
In  books,  the  whole  treasury  of  human  literature 
is  at  his  command,  and  so  much  of  the  best  of  it  is 

28s 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

of  his  own  generation  that  he  will  find  in  this  alone 
the  full  complement  of  his  culture,  including  the 
truest  interpretation  of  the  past. 

All  this  is  literature  with  the  stamp  of  imagina- 
tion upon  it.  Very  little  of  it  that  is  contemporary 
will  ever  meet  the  eyes  of  a  future  generation.  The 
eminent  writers  of  the  past  who  have  won  immor- 
tality did  not  strive  for  it ;  they  were  helped  to  it 
through  features  which  our  writers  have  missed  or 
repudiated — impressive  accessories,  association  with 
heroic  or  religious  themes,  and,  in  times  when  there 
were  few  authors  of  any  note,  a  singular  assurance 
of  prosperity  with  many  generations.  Their  in- 
trinsic excellence,  which  is  undisputed,  while  an 
indispensable  condition  to  lasting  fame,  would  not 
alone  have  sufficed  to  save  them  from  oblivion. 

Our  writers,  unconsciously,  it  is  true,  but  per- 
severingly,  court  evanescence.  That  is  the  course 
of  evolution  in  Nature.  The  inorganic  endures, 
but  all  living  things  pass,  and  return  only  in  their 
successors.  Never  the  same  harvest  blooms  again. 
As  literature  comes  nearer  to  life  it  partakes  more 
of  its  evanescence,  which,  in  the  case  of  humanity, 
is  more  pronounced  than  it  is  in  Nature.  This 
comparative  disadvantage,  as  it  seemed  to  our  pred- 
ecessors, found  a  partial  compensation  in  the  dur- 
able monuments  of  art.  But  we  do  not  look  upon 
it  as  such  a  disadvantage,  and  instead  of  seeking 
durability  we  are  not  only  inclined  but  compelled 
to  promote  mutation  and  expedite  the  passing. 

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PROSPECT   OF   IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

The  word  "duration"  suggests  hardness,  immov- 
able permanence,  the  stabiHty  of  Cathay.  Men 
were  used  to  think  of  eternity  as  endless  duration. 
Now  we  have  come  to  think  of  it  as  a  quality  of  the 
psychical  life.  Water  wears  away  and  outwears  the 
rock.  Only  that  which  freely  flows,  which  is  mobile, 
quick  in  change  and  passage,  can  have  real  stability. 
Our  modem  conservatism  is  not  a  clinging  to  old 
modes,  a  plea  for  stereotyped  fashions ;  it  is  rather  a 
plea  for  time — however  brief  the  moment — in  which 
to  change.  The  obstinacy  of  the  old  conservatism, 
a  protest  against  mutation,  insured  the  ruin,  through 
brittleness  or  rot,  of  all  it  sought  to  preserve,  leading 
the  way  to  precisely  the  same  meaningless  dust  or 
refuse  that  iconoclasm  leaves  in  its  wake.  Icono- 
clasm,  therefore,  belongs  wholly  to  the  past — to 
those  periods  in  which  its  precipitate  corrosions 
were  invited;  in  our  day  the  general  sense  waits 
upon  conservatism  and  deprecates  destruction  of 
values.  The  stability  of  our  civilization  is  secured 
by  those  mutations  which  are  a  distinctive  feature 
of  modem  constructive  organization.  The  destruc- 
tion of  values  by  war  is  coming  to  be  looked  upon  as 
an  intolerable  barbarism. 

To  expedite  the  passing  is  the  law  of  our  modem 
life.  We  reinforce  all  sane  and  wholesome  currents, 
all  that  are  not  impelled  by  rages  and  hatreds,  and 
in  time  shall  thus  prevent  the  waste  and  futility 
of  attempts  to  sustain  decrepitudes.  Even  in  our 
pathology  we  stimulate  fevers  and  send  after  dis- 

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THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

ease  its  own  specific  virus  or,  what  is  better,  pre- 
veniently  anticipate  it  by  the  same  means  —  so 
clearing  the  stream. 

It  is  a  fortunate  era  we  have  reached,  when  we  are 
no  longer,  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne  said,  "Januses  of 
one  face,"  and  that  face  turned  ever  to  the  past. 
The  forward  look  has  so  gained  upon  us  that  all  of 
our  old  men  who  have  been  really  modem  find  in 
the  imagination  of  things  to  come  a  charm  outvying 
that  of  retro  vision.  Our  imagination  shows  more 
creative  power  in  its  prophetic  office  than  when  its 
commerce  was  with  the  past,  trafficking  with 
memories  and  memorials. 

The  charm  which  holds  us  lies  in  what  is  becoming, 
in  a  life  unfolding  itself  and  seen  in  its  own  light; 
and  for  our  generation  the  ever-fresh  disclosures 
have  a  potent  spell,  leading  us  on  in  new  paths.  Our 
imagination  does  not  feed  alone  upon  the  enshrined 
show-bread  of  memory. 

It  is  not  a  formless,  colorless,  or  flavorless  world 
which  furnishes  the  rich  content  of  this  freshly 
awakened  human  sensibility  in  our  time.  We  are 
held  to  the  perceptions  and  impressions  of  the  pres- 
ent, finding  such  satisfaction  in  our  real  sense  of 
these  that  we  do  not  need  to  revert  to  some  older 
bond  established  by  association  for  a  reinforcement 
of  our  interest,  rather  indeed  waiting  for  what  is 
next  to  come,  to  heighten  the  charm.  For  it  is  a 
flowing,  ever-changing  world.  It  always  was  this, 
but   we   have   become,    ourselves,    so   responsively 

288 


PROSPECT   OF  IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

fluent  that  the  novelty  and  the  surprise  no  longer 
escape  us;  and  out  of  these  changes  in  us  has  come 
a  new  humanity,  with  novelties  and  surprises  of 
transcendent  interest. 

This  eagerly  waiting  attitude  of  ours  does  not 
incline  us  to  visit  old  crypts  and  dusty  chambers  to 
look  upon  memorials  and  effigies;  and  it  does  dispose 
us  with  genuine  psychical  hospitality  to 

"  Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest." 

Surely  there  was  some  sad  lack  of  imagination 
betrayed  in  the  former  so  general  habit  of  looking 
upon  the  present  as  flat  and  stale  simply  because  it 
was  modem.  Rather,  with  Faust,  we  should  count 
that  moment  happy  which  we  bid  to  stay,  and  better 
still — better  for  our  faith  in  life — when  we  are  willing 
that  any  moment,  however  happy,  should  pass,  sure 
of  the  more  bountiful  sequel.  We  have  become 
lovers  of  change,  not  from  the  nomadic  impulse 
bred  in  the  desert,  and  not  for  the  sake  of  variety  so 
much  as  for  our  interest  in  the  variation  which 
forever  discloses  new  values — values  which  even  in 
that  old  dark  article  of  death  shine  so  brightly  that 
we  are  more  interested  than  appalled  by  what  seems 
to  us  but  a  new  and  vastly  more  revelatory  turn  of 
the  shifting  curtain. 

All  of  our  life  which  has  for  us  beauty,  interest, 
and  meaning  is  made  up  of  evanescences,  of  things 
that  are  passing  and  which  we  willingly  let  pass. 
This  is  as  true  of  past  generations  as  of  our  own,  and 

289 


THE  NEW   LITERATURE 

those  generations  found  in  the  shifting  scenes  and 
situations  a  by  no  means  stinted  share  of  human 
dehghts  and  satisfactions ;  but  for  us  the  phenomena 
are  different.  Life,  so  generous  for  them,  is  yet  for 
us  far  more  abundant  and  varied  in  its  bounty,  and 
we  have  quite  another  perspective  of  its  real  values. 
They  were  more  exacting,  formal,  and  tenacious  in 
the  outward  conduct  of  life,  and  more  jealously 
guarded  a  visible  integrity.  We  have  more  faith 
in  life,  confident  of  its  inward  harmony,  and  let  it 
freely  flow,  seeking  its  own  levels;  we  are  not  afraid 
of  inconsistency,  and  readily  give  up  the  outward 
for  an  invisible  integrity.  We  are  sure  of  our  har- 
mony and  do  not  strain  to  keep  it  at  high  pitch; 
chaos  will  not  ensue  upon  our  relaxation.  Ours  is 
not  the  burden  of  Atlas.  Souls  will  not  be  lost  for 
lack  of  our  inquisition.  Yet  the  currents  of  the 
world's  life,  thus  freely  flowing,  are  strong  enough 
for  their  own  issues  and  for  the  salvation  of  all  who 
yield  to  them.  Response  to  the  truth  is  more  im- 
portant than  that  old  mistaken  sense  of  responsi- 
bility to  which  more  than  half  of  the  almost  un- 
thinkable cruelties  of  the  past  were  due. 

Literature  as  well  as  life  has  been  released  from 
an  unnatural  strain  through  our  new  sense  of  values. 
Walls  are  for  the  garden,  not  the  garden  for  walls; 
and  our  real  life,  certainly  our  real  literature,  is 
wholly  concerned  with  the  garden  and  with  its  liv- 
ing and  evanescent  flowers  and  fruits.  Formerly 
the  imagination  dwelt  in  the  house  of  Fame,  exalting 

290 


PROSPECT  OF  IMAGINATIVE   LITERATURE 

heroic  or  saintly  deeds  and  personalities;  now  it  is 
not  busy  with  things  that  are  memorable  or  monu- 
mentally lasting;  it  dwells  in  the  house  of  Life. 
The  phenomena  which  appeal  to  it  and  which  en- 
gage its  powers  do  not  crystallize  in  fixed  external 
features  or  traits,  are  always  in  flux  and  have  no 
permanence,  are,  therefore,  not  matters  of  record 
or  memorial,  but,  being  moments  of  mind  and  heart 
or,  at  their  firmest,  moods  that  take  shapes  as  clouds 
do  in  the  sky,  have  no  statics  and  are  caught  only 
in  passing.  Such  moments  or  moods  have,  in  all 
times,  made  the  best  part  of  human  life — the  very 
life  of  life — but  not  the  best  on  the  same  psychical 
plane  as  ours,  and,  therefore,  not  having  the  same 
high  esteem  in  critical  appreciation  or  in  imaginative 
selection.  The  values  which  our  present  generation 
most  cherishes  in  literature  have  not  distinguished 
the  literature  and,  still  less,  the  art  of  former  ages. 
Even  in  our  interpretation  of  the  past  we  seek, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  get  back  of  the  memorial,  back 
of  those  things  which  formerly  seemed  most  worthy 
of  record,  and  so  made  up  the  body  of  human  history ; 
yet  if  we  were  successful,  we  should  not  find  psy- 
chical phenomena  of  the  same  order  as  those  which 
abound  in  our  modem  life,  and  which  have  our 
preference  as  imaginative  motives  because  of  their 
higher  interest  and  excitement — more  than  com- 
pensating those  we  have  surrendered.  If  every 
part  of  the  world's  life  were  brought  within  the  full 
operation  of  this  dynamic  psychical  harmony,  we 
ao  291 


THE   NEW    LITERATURE 

should  have  as  reasonable  a  millennium  as  we  could 
hope  for — and  should  no  longer  make  history,  cer- 
tainly not  after  the  manner  of  former  generations. 
Already  we  are  puzzled  how  fitly  to  commemorate 
a  three  hundred  years'  old  poet,  we  are  so  tired  of 
outward  monuments.  For  records  shall  we  here- 
after be  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  those  of 
commerce  and  industry  and  athletics,  of  the  best 
sellers  in  the  book  market,  of  the  speed  of  automo- 
biles and  ocean  liners,  the  flights  of  air-ships,  and 
the  long-windedness  of  congressional  speechmakers, 
or  of  the  applause  given  to  presidential  candidates 
in  political  conventions?  All  these  are  fluctuating 
enough  to  meet  the  modern  note  of  change  and  of 
absolute  contemporaneity,  but  have  no  psychical 
significance  and  no  imaginative  value;  they  belong 
to  the  mere  routine  of  journalism. 

Each  new  generation  suffices  more  and  more  for 
itself,  and,  whatever  regard  it  may  have  for  antiquity, 
it  has  little  for  an  invisible  posterity — none  at  all 
for  any  glory  that  posterity  may  confer  upon  it. 
It  is  faithfully  reflected  in  its  imaginative  literature 
— in  that  portion  of  it  which  is  either  an  interpreta- 
tion or  representation  of  contemporary  life.  What 
matter  if  the  next  generation,  in  its  own  self-suffi- 
ciency, is  oblivious  of  the  reflection,  and  treats  this 
passing  literature  as  in  a  palimpsest,  writing  its  own 
above  it? 

There  is  another  portion  of  literature  in  each  gen- 
eration, not  so  entirely  contemporary  in  its  aim,  but, 

292 


PROSPECT   OF   IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

as  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  fiction,  link- 
ing itself  with  the  past,  while  wholly  modem  in  its 
psychical  method  and  meaning.  We  should  say 
that  modernity  is  with  Mrs.  Ward  a  passion,  what- 
ever the  background  of  her  work.  This  class  of 
literature  is  especially  important  for  its  culture- 
values.  Whether  on  that  account  it  will  last  any 
longer  is  by  no  means  certain.  It  may  be  that  we 
have  reached  the  time  when  even  the  torch-bearers 
are  illuminated  only  by  the  passing  flame. 

But  there  remains  still  another  kind  of  imagina- 
tive literature — a  more  unconscious,  indeed  an  ab- 
solutely spontaneous,  manifestation  of  genius,  and 
more  distinctively  creative  than  any  other.  In  our 
day  it  is  sure  to  be  fiction,  and  just  because  it  is  so 
purely  creative  it  is  profoundly  and  inevitably  in- 
terpretative. We  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were  actually 
in  evidence,  but  we  should  rather  say  that  there  are 
in  certain  works  of  fiction  of  our  time,  beginning 
with  the  early  novels  of  Thomas  Hardy,  indications 
of  it,  samples  showing  its  kind  rather  than  works 
fully  illustrating  its  possibilities.  Thus  we  have  in 
one  writer  a  native  quaintness  of  characterization 
which  has  fascinated  European  as  well  as  American 
readers,  but  lacking  in  might  of  thought  or  feeling; 
in  another,  might  enough  of  humor  and  fancy  to 
have  made  his  name  known  in  the  most  secluded 
nook  of  Christendom;  in  another,  the  power  beyond 
any  one  in  her  generation  to  create  living  men  and 
women;   in  another,   just   beginning  her  career,   a 

293 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

plain  portraiture  which  sometimes  seems  like  a 
bravura  of  realism ;  and  in  still  another,  this  realistic 
representation  made  especially  significant  by  a 
subtle  imagination.  In  all  the  work  coming  within 
the  class  now  under  consideration  perhaps  that  of 
Thomas  Hardy  and  Mark  Twain  comes  nearest  to  a 
large  and  significant  realization  of  the  possibilities 
of  the  new  literature. 

This  kind  of  imaginative  creation  we  do  not  asso- 
ciate with  culture-values.  It  is  all  modem — could 
indeed  only  spring  up  in  our  time ;  but  we  do  not 
look  upon  the  creators  of  it  as  passing  on  the  torch — 
they  have  no  place  in  that  light-bearing  procession. 
When  we  read  Conrad's  Lord  Jim  or  Kenneth  Gra- 
hame's  Golden  Age,  we  do  not  give  them  a  definite 
place  in  the  course  of  human  culture,  as  we  do  the 
writings  of  Thackeray,  George  Eliot,  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward,  and  Henry  James.  This  kind  of  work  seems, 
in  a  way,  almost  dateless,  as  Mrs.  Mary  Wilkins 
Freeman's  stories  seem. 

If  we  are  to  be  surprised  by  some  new  Immortal, 
he  will  come  in  this  dateless  fashion,  like  a  Mel- 
chisedec,  "without  generation  or  length  of  days." 
And  we  are,  not  altogether  without  hope,  looking 
for  him,  or,  it  may  as  well  be,  for  her.  This  coming 
author  will  be  a  modem  of  the  modems — it  is  only 
thus  that  he  can  surprise  his  contemporaries,  our- 
selves or  those  who  come  after  us.  His  genius  may 
remind  us  of  the  greatest  of  the  old  Immortals — of 
Shakespeare  or,  as  Hardy's  did  when  it  first  dawned 

294 


PROSPECT  OF  IMAGINATIVE   LITERATURE 

upon  us,  of  the  Greek  masters  of  tragedy ;  but  it  will 
not  come  in  the  guise  of  any  of  these.  He  will  not 
be  compared  as  to  excellence  with  writers  past  or 
present  so  that  criticism  can  point  out  that  in  this 
or  that  respect  he  is  in  the  advance.  He  will  not  be 
praised  for  his  subtle  analysis  or  his  exquisite  art. 
Without  any  of  the  tricks  of  the  showman,  any 
theatrical  poses  or  effects,  or  any  such  masterfulness 
as  will  lose  him  the  reader's  intimacy,  he  will  have 
the  large  appeal  and  be  popular. 

We  cannot  give  away  the  secret  of  such  an  au- 
thor's charm,  or  combination  of  charms,  since  he  is 
to  be  a  surprise,  the  Unprecedented,  dealing  with 
the  unprecedented  phenomena  of  the  new  world 
which  his  creative  and  interpretative  imagination 
shall  discover.  Psychical  phenomena,  surely — that 
way  must  lie  the  supreme  excitement,  play,  humor, 
and  enchantment. 

In  the  mean  time — that  is,  while  we  are  still 
awaiting  the  emergence  of  a  genius  which  shall  fully 
illustrate  the  possibilities  that  we  hopelessly  attempt 
to  define — we  must  listen  to  the  tiresome  complaint 
of  the  mediocrity  of  contemporary  literature. 

Every  modem  advantage  which  we  may  reasonably 
consider  an  excellence,  as  indicating  an  advance  in 
our  departure  from  the  life  and  literature  of  the  past, 
seems  to  involve  just  that  kind  of  disadvantage 
which  makes  for  mediocrity.  We  might  therefore 
infer  that  mediocrity  itself  is  the  distinctive  excel- 
lence of  modernity.     And  such  it  is  negatively — 

295 


THE   NEW   LITERATURE 

that  is,  as  precluding  certain  kinds  of  superiority. 
But  it  has  only  this  negative  virtue.  Mediocrity 
invites  disaster  to  literature  and  to  every  other 
human  interest  not  sordidly  material.  Our  hope  is 
in  our  belief  that  the  mediocrity  characterizes  only 
the  outward  fashions  of  our  life;  that  the  appear- 
ance of  a  dead  level  is  due  only  to  the  absence  of  the 
kind  of  eminences  which  we  have  repudiated;  that 
some  new  psychical  sovereignty  or  compulsion — 
more  native  to  life,  more  vitally  uplifting  and  sig- 
nificant— has  displaced  that  mock  show  of  mastery 
which,  in  the  past,  has  proved  wholly  inadequate 
to  a  full  realization  of  humanity. 

The  manifestation  of  this  less  obvious  but  only 
real  aristocracy  seems  to  us  to  be  shown  in  our  life 
and  in  our  literature.  But  there  is  room  for  its 
more  buoyant  expression,  for  the  ampler  expansion 
of  its  power — such  as  shall  expel  the  word  "medi- 
ocrity" from  the  critic's  vocabulary.  This  consum- 
mation cannot  be  reached  in  our  fiction — and  it  is 
there  that  it  must  be  realized — by  finesse  of  art  or 
any  masterful  legerdemain  of  treatment,  by  study 
or  by  mental  or  emotional  stress,  and,  least  of  all, 
by  reversion  to  old  methods  and  motives.  It  may 
come,  as  we  have  intimated,  through  some  excep- 
tional genius  which  will  give  to  our  era  such  dis- 
tinction as  Shakespeare  gave  the  Elizabethan  and 
Dickens  the  Victorian;  or  a  group  of  writers  may 
emerge,  each  in  his  separate  and  distinct  eminence, 
whose  genius  shall  fully  illustrate  the  imaginative 

296 


PROSPECT  OF   IMAGINATIVE    LITERATURE 

values  of  the  new  order  with  such  creative  power 
as  shall  bring  on  the  Summer  of  our  literature,  in 
its  glowing  light  and  brooding  heat;  its  expanse  and 
abundance  as  well  as  variety  and  free  play  under 
loftier  skies;  its  natural  excess,  through  reinforce- 
ment without  exaggeration  —  showing  that  a  psy- 
chical realism  involves  supreme  excitement  and 
passion;  dramatic  movement  without  theatrical 
show;  the  art  which  nature  makes;  the  pulsation, 
vibrancy,  and  full  volume  of  life. 

We  are  not  confessing  to  the  weakness  of  our  new 
literature,  which  we  do  not  regard  as  either  mediocre 
or  anaemic,  though  we  are  looking  for  better  ex- 
amples of  its  strength.  Probably  the  complaining 
critic  might  more  justly  be  brought  to  the  confes- 
sional, so  blind  does  he  seem  to  values  not  meeting 
expectations  based  on  an  old  habit  of  judgment. 
Criticism  is  apt  to  lag  far  behind  creative  power,  as 
it  did  in  the  days  of  Jeffrey  and  Keats.  Ours  is  not 
a  period  of  transition,  in  respect  of  the  attitude  of 
the  imaginative  writer,  but  one  of  waiting  for  his 
mightiest  achievement. 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Edwin  A.,  art  of,  51, 
270. 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  his  im- 
pressions of  European  travel 
contributed  to  Dennie's  Port- 
folio, 43. 

Adams,  Phineas,  founder  of  the 
Anthology  Club,  Boston,  43. 

Addison,  Joseph,  contributor 
to  the  Tatlcr,  Spectator,  and 
Guardian,  9;  efTect  upon  his 
generation  of  his  appreciation 
of  Milton,  10;  Dr.  Johnson's 
tribute  to  his  style,   18. 

Adventurer,  the,  established  by 
Dr.  Hawkesworth  and  con- 
tributed to  by  Dr.  Johnson, 
18. 

Ainsworth,  Harrison,  novels  of, 
in  Bentley's  Miscellany,  with 
illustrations   by   Cruikshank, 

36. 

Akenside,  Dr.  Mark,  first  poems 
of,  in  the  Gentleman' s  Maga- 
zine, 28;  Hazlitt's  comparison 
of,  with  Wordsworth,  28. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  con- 
tributor to  New  York  Home 
Journal,  47;  editor  of  the 
Atlantic  Montlily,  52. 

Alison,  Sir  Archibald,  contribu- 
tor to,  Blackivood' s ,  34. 

Allingham,  William,  associated 
with  James  Anthony  Froude 
in  editorship  of  Eraser's,  and 
his  successor,  37. 


American  Whig  Review,  Poe's 
"  Raven  "  contributed  to,  but 
first  published,  by  permission, 
in  the  New  York  Mirror,  46. 

Analeciic  M agazine,  Moses 
Thomas's,  edited  by  Washing- 
ton Irving,  43. 

Anonymity  :  to  old  -  time  au- 
diences the  author's  indi- 
viduality of  no  serious  con- 
cern, 80;  reasons  for  masked 
authorship  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  81,  82;  "Mr.  Bick- 
erstaff"  in  the  Spectator,  81; 
"Junius,"  82;  author  of 
"Ossian,"  82;  forgeries  of 
Chatterton,  82  ;  nineteenth 
century  pseudonyms:  the 
"  Waverley  "  disguise,  "  Boz," 
and  "George  Eliot,"  83; 
lapse  of  Bulwcr  to  anonymity 
after  he  had  won  distinction, 
83;  advantages  of  anonymity 
to  new  author,  84;  "  Elia," 
a  warm  cloak  for  Charles 
Lamb,  84  ;  difference  for- 
merly between  the  esteem  for 
books  and  that  for  periodical 
contributions,  85;  Lockhart's 
unpleasant  associations  with 
magazines,  culminating  in 
the  fate  of  John  Scott,  85; 
disclosure  of  names  would 
have  revealed  the  poverty 
of  literature  in  the  early 
nineteenth    century,    85,   86; 


299 


INDEX 


one  writer  would  contribute 
several  articles  to  a  single 
number,  86 ;  reasons  for  the 
abandonment  of  anonymity, 
92. 

Anthology  Club,  Boston,  43. 

"Apostles,"  group  of,  at  Cam- 
bridge,  England,   253. 

Aristocracy,  the  old  and  the 
new,   261-264. 

Arnold.  Matthew,  his  "'Litera- 
ture and  Dogma,"  published 
in  Cornhill,  38  ;  contributor 
to  Macmillan  s  Magazine,  38; 
the  true  apostle  of  the  clari- 
fied world  sense,  227. 

Athensum,  the,  John  Sterling 
and  F.  D.  Maurice  editors 
of,  31;  Theodore  Watts  Dun- 
ton  leading  literary  critic  of, 
for  twenty-five  years,  and 
poetical  contributor  to,  31; 
early  contributions  of  Will- 
iam Smith  to,  35. 

Atherton,  Mrs.  Gertrude,  pro- 
test of,  against  bourgeois  liter- 
ature, 59. 

Atlantic  Magazine  (afterward 
the  Alonthly  Review),  the 
first  important  literary  peri- 
odical published  in  New 
York,  46. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  circumstances 
of  its  origin,  49;  its  editors, 
Lowell,  Howells,  Aldrich,  and 
Scudder,  52;  its  early  con- 
tributors, 53. 

Austen,  Jane,  realism  of,  23;  her 
limitations,  280. 

Austin,  Alfred,  his  preference 
for  eighteenth  century  liter- 
ature, 59. 

Backgrounds,  value  of,  as 
world  pictures  in  Meredith's, 
Hardy's,  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward's,  and  Sir  Gilbert  Par- 
ker's fiction,  175;  why  mini- 


mized in  comedy,  175;  ex- 
panded in  romance,  175; 
modern  tolerance  of  the 
elaborate,  176;  extreme  ex- 
ample in  ■ '  The  Garden  of 
Allah,"  176;  satisfying  the 
higher  curiosity,    176. 

Bath,  polite  literature,  in  11. 

Bathurst,  Dr.  Richard,  associ- 
ated with  the  Adventurer,  18. 

Bee,  Goldsmith's,   22. 

Bentley' s  Miscellany,  Ains- 
worth's  novels  in,  36. 

Blackwood,  William,  founder 
of  great  Edinburgh  publish- 
ing house  and  of  Blackwood' s 
Alagazme,  3 1 ;  would  not  hold 
out  money  as  an  inducement 
to  contributors,  10 1. 

Blackwood's  Magazine,  succes- 
sor of  the  Edinburgh  Month- 
ly Adagazine  ( 18 17),  31  ;  its 
establishment  marked  the 
beginning  of  Edinburgh's  lit- 
erary supremacy,  31  ;  asso- 
ciation with,  of  John  Wil- 
son, J.  G.  Lockhart,  and 
James  Hogg,  32;  brilliant 
success  of  first  number,  in 
which  appeared  the  cele- 
brated "Chaldee  Manu- 
script" 32;  attacks  on 
Coleridge  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
32;  "  Noctes  Ambrosianae," 
32;  the  list  of  eminent  con- 
tributors, including  Scott, 
Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  Ay- 
toun,  Samuel  Warren,  Sir 
Archibald  Alison,  Bulwer, 
Lever,  Mrs.  Browning,  Mrs. 
Hemans,  George  Eliot,  Mrs. 
Oliphant,  Landor,  Laurence 
Oliphant,  A.  W.  Kinglake, 
William  Smith,  and  W.  W. 
Story,  33,  34,  35;  payments 
to  contributors,  10 1. 

Boston,  period  of  its  literary 
suprernacy,   52. 


300 


INDEX 


Briggs,  Charles  F.,  editor  of  the 
Broadway  Journal,  47;  Poe 
associated  with,  47. 

British  Magazine,  Smollett's 
"Sir  Lancelot  Greaves"  pub- 
lished  serially   in,   26. 

Broadway  Journal,  the,  47. 

Brougham,  Henry,  Lord,  one 
of  the  f(junders  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Reviciv,  20;  said  to 
have  contributed  the  entire 
contents  of  one  number  of 
the  Review,  86. 

Brown,  Charles  Brockden,  the 
Literary  Magazine  established 
by,  43-      '  *•        'V 

Browning,  Robert,  contributor 
to  Cornhill,  37;  offered  the 
editorship  of  Cornhill,  to  suc- 
ceed Thackeray,  37. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
contributor  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine,  34;  to  Lowell's 
Pioneer,    47. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen,  his 
"Thanatopsis"  in  North 
Atnerican  Review,  44;  article, 
in  same,  on  American  poe- 
try, 45;  association  with  the 
New  York  Monthly  Review, 
46;  contributed  poems  to  the 
United  States  Literarv  Ga- 
zette and  "Peter  Parley's" 
Token,  46;  work  on  the  New 
York  Evening  Post,  46;  prof- 
its from  his  translation  of 
Homer,  98. 

Bulwer  Lytton,  Edward,  editor 
of  Culbum's  New  Monthly 
Magaziiie,  29;  his  novels  in 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  34. 

Bunyan,  John,  class  of  people 
who  read,  in  eighteenth  cen- 
tury,   10. 

Burke,  Edmund,  why  he  did 
not  write  for  periodicals,  115; 
his  Annual  Register,  115. 

Burns,    Robert,    lyrical    revolt 


of,  against  artificiality  and 
conventionalism,  25;  j^rclude 
to  Bynm,  27. 
Byron,  Lord,  with  Scott,  occu- 
pied the  foreground  in  early 
nineteenth-century  literature, 
27  ;  projected  the  Liberal, 
which  opened  with  his  "Vis- 
ion of  Judgment,"  30. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  editor  of 
Colburn's  Neiv  Monthly  Mag- 
azine, afterward  of  the  Metro- 
politan,  29. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  early  work 
of,  in  Eraser's,  37;  "Life  of 
Schiller"  in  the  London  Mag- 
azine, 37;  papers  on  Gennan 
literature  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  ^7;  his  "Sartor  Re- 
sartus"  m  Eraser's  unfavor- 
ably received,  37— ^first  pub- 
lished in  book  form  in  Ameri- 
ca, 258. 

Cave,  Edward,  established  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  12; 
prizes  for  poems  offered  by, 
12. 

Caxton,  William,  printer  of 
books  two  centuries  before 
the  advent  of  the  daily  news- 
paper, 6. 

Cervantes,  his  love  of  the  chiv- 
alry he  parodied,  235. 

Champion,  the,  Fielding's,  22. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  contributor 
to  the  World,  22. 

Citizen  of  the  World,  Goldsmith's, 
22. 

City,  history  of  the,  the  history 
of  civilization,  248;  in  our 
time  the  salvation  of  the 
country,  2 48;  love  of  great 
writers  for,  251;  the  new  ur- 
banity associated  with  mod- 
ern progress,  240;  source  of 
culture  and  the  amenities, 
251;  losing  urbanity  itself,  it 


301 


INDEX 


is  the  source  of  urbanity  in 
the  country,  252. 

CiviHzation,  modern,  may  last 
as  long  as  the  planet  is 
habitable,    156. 

Clare,  John,  the  peasant  poet, 
contributor  to  the  London 
Magazine,  29. 

Class  prejudice  undermined  by 
modern  fiction,  236,  237. 

Colbum's  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, edited  by  Campbell, 
Hook,  Bulwer  Lytton,  and 
Ainsworth,  29. 

Coleridge,  Hartley,  contributor 
to  the  London  Magazine,  29. 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  con- 
tributor to  Blackwood" s  Mag- 
azine, 33;  paid  ten  guineas  a 
sheet,  loi;  his  articles  in  the 
Morning  Post  said  by  Fox  to 
have  led  to  the  rupture  of 
the  treaty  of  Amiens,  40. 

Connoisseur,  the,  Cowper  con- 
tributor to,  22. 

Constable,  Archibald,  publisher 
of  Scott's  novels,  the  Scots 
Magazine,  and  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  31. 

Copyists,  the  old  Roman  and 
mediaeval,    5. 

Cornhill  Magazine,  edited  by 
Thackeray  and  Sir  Leslie 
Stephen,  36;  contributed  to 
by  Henry  James,  Louis  Stev- 
enson, Thomas  Hardy,  36; 
editorship  oflered  to  Brown- 
ing. 37-  ,       . 

Covent  Garden  Journal,  Field- 
ing's,  22. 

Cowper,  William,  contributor 
to  the  Connoisseur,  22. 

Crabbe,  George,  first  inspiration 
of,  from  poetry  in  the  Phil- 
osophical Magazine,  28. 

Creative  values  in  life  and  litera- 
ture, 154-165. 

Critical  Review,  the,  Tory,  edi- 


ted by  Smollett,  supported  by 
Dr.  Johnson  and  Robertson, 
the  historian,  20. 

Culture,  feminism  of  modern, 
58-64;  culture  of  the  general 
sensibility  more  important 
than  education,  265;  culture 
values  of  fiction,  291, 

Cunningham,  Allan,  contributor 
to  London  Magazine,  29. 

Dana,  Richard  H.,  the  elder, 
editor  of  North  American 
Review,  44;  publication  of 
his  poem,  "The  Buccaneer," 
in  1827,  44. 

Deal,  polite  literature  in,   11. 

Defoe,  Daniel,  as  a  pamphlet- 
eer, 7;  his  Review,  7,8;  antic- 
ipation of  the  essay  periodical 
in  "The  Scandalous  Club''  of 
the  Revieiv,  8,  serial  publica- 
tion of  his  Robinson  Crusoe  in 
Heathcote's  Intelligencer,  8. 

Dennie,  Joseph,  his  depressing 
view  of  the  profession  of  let- 
ters in  America,  42;  his  Port- 
folio, 43 . 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  his  "Con- 
fessions of  an  English  Opium- 
Eater"  in  London  Magazine, 
29;  his  "Caesars"  and  "  Flight 
of  a  Tartar  Tribe"  in  Black- 
wood's, 33;  editor  for  a  year 
of  the  Westmoreland  Gazette, 
40;  most  of  his  best  work 
published  in  periodicals,  54; 
essays  first  published  in  book 
form  in  America,  10 1. 

Dial,  the,  at  Brook  Farm,  con- 
ducted by  George  Ripley  and 
Margaret  Fuller,  and  contrib- 
uted to  by  Emerson,  48. 

Didacticism,  as  characteristic  of 
eighteenth -century  literature, 
15-24;  ground  of,  in  English 
character,  16,  17;  Pope's,  16; 
Dr.  Johnson's  16;   Richard- 


302 


INDEX 


son's,  23;  Maria  Edgeworth's, 
23;  Hannah  More's,  23,  24; 
reaction  against  in  Wcsley- 
anism,  24. 

Dickens,  Charles,  first  story  of, 
in  M onthly  M agazine ,  in  1833, 
36;  "The  Boarding-House," 
m  New  Monthly  Al agazine, 
the  first  signed  "  Boz,"  36;  his 
All  the  Year  Round  and  House- 
hold Words,  36  ;  in  his  early 
days  on  the  staff  of  the  Morn- 
ing Chronicle,  40. 

Dryden,  John,  frequenter  of 
Will's  Coffee-House,  8,  i  5;  de- 
grading effect  of  the  Restora- 
tion upon  his  plays,  9. 

Dunton,  Theodore  Watts,  lead- 
ing literary  critic  of  the  Athe- 
nccum  for  twenty-five  years, 
also  poetical  contributor,  3 1 . 

Edgeworth,  Maria,  Irish  tales 
of — their  genuine  humor  and 
obviously    didactic    purpose, 

23. 

Edinburgh  Magazine,  continua- 
tion of  Scots  Magazine,  2 1 . 

Edinburgh  Review :  first  critical 
periodical  of  high  order  in- 
dependent of  a  publisher,  20; 
its  founders,  20;  owed  its 
prominence  to  the  special  in- 
terest in  politics  and  criticism, 
2q;  Macaulay's  essays  in,  54. 

Eighteenth  century,  contempo- 
raneity a  characteristic  of 
literature  of,  loi,  115;  peri- 
odical literature  of,  3-41;  di- 
dacticism of,  15-24;  life  reg- 
ulated by  "common  sense," 
24;  fiction,  conformed  to  facts 
and  circumstances  of  actual 
life,  24,  25;  reaction  against 
formalism  in  poetry  of  Gray, 
Collins,  Shenstone,  Young, 
Beattie,  Goldsmith,  and 
Burns,  25. 


Eliot,  George,  her  "  Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life"  first  published 
in  Blackwood's,  34;  contribu- 
tor to  Harper's,  35;  to  Mac- 
millan's,  38. 

Essay  jjeriodicals :  early  in  eigh- 
teenth century  styled  coffee- 
house literature,  10;  the  Tal- 
ler, 9,  10;  the  Spectator,  g,  10, 
1 1 ;  the  Guardian,  9;  space  oc- 
cupied by  polite  criticism  and 
polite  manners  in,  10;  urban 
audience  of,  10  ;  Johnson's 
Rambler,  10;  lasting  influence 
of  the  Spectator  type  of  essay, 
1 1 ;  the  entire  Spectator  copied 
by  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Montagu, 
1 1 ;  character  sketches  in  the 
Spectator,  prelusive  of  the 
novel,  11;  circulation  of  the 
Spectator,  13;  the  Adventurer, 
18;  Johnson's  Idler,  19  ;  the 
Connoisseur,  Fielding's  Cham- 
pion and  Covent  Garden  Jour- 
nal, the  World,  Goldsmith's 
Bee  and  Citizen  of  the  World, 
the  Edinburgh  Mirror — suc- 
ceeded by  the  Lounger,  22; 
the  essay  periodicals  usually 
started  and  owned  by  indi- 
viduals, 22. 

Evening  Post,  New  York,  Bry- 
ant's association  with,  46. 

Everett,  Edward,  editor  of 
North  American  Review,  44. 

Evolution,  creative  values  dis- 
closed in,  transcend  those 
gained  by  progressive  ex- 
perience, 157-165;  specializa- 
tion, which  in  progress  means 
improved  efficiency,  in  evo- 
lution means  new  forms  of 
life,  161;  gains  and  losses  in 
this  specialization,  161- 164; 
a  normal  decadence,  162; 
permissive  conditions,  162- 
164;  changes  in  human  nat- 
ure,  182-192;  diversity  and 


303 


INDEX 


variation,  not  uniformity,  the 
ground  of  our  chief  interest 
in  nature  and  in  human  his- 
tory, 182  -  186  ;  identity  a 
mask,  184  ;  why  the  archae- 
ologist is  most  inclined  to 
insist  upon  the  everlasting 
sameness  of  human  nature, 
186;  views  of  Flinders  Petrie, 
186,  190;  course  of  evolution 
—  the  higher  the  plane  the 
more  rapid  succession  of  dis- 
tinct epochs,  187;  why  man 
is  of  all  beings  the  most 
mutable,  187,  188;  the  radical 
changes  in  human  nature  be- 
long to  the  psychical  field, 
188;  these  changes  in  life 
apart  from  art,  literature, 
faith,  and  philosophy,  188, 
189;  moral  codes  persist, 
manners  change,  189;  knowl- 
edge not  simply  cumulative, 
it  has  evolutionary  variations, 
igo;  the  renascence  of  sensi- 
bility begets  a  new  sense  of 
life,  190;  the  radical  changes 
evident  in  passing  from  Soph- 
ocles to  Dante,  and  from 
Dante  to  Wordsworth,  192; 
Thackeray's  comment  on  the 
change  in  manners  from  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne  to  that 
of  Victoria,  and  on  the  abo- 
lition of  public  executions, 
193  ;  facilities  of  intercom- 
munication, a  permissive 
conditon,  194;  thenewpsychi- 
cal  era  began  with  the  pro- 
mulgation of  the  doctrine  of 
evolution,  195;  break  with 
scholasticism,  traditional  au- 
thority, and  merely  notional 
thinking,  195;  birth  of  the 
new  literature  with  the  new 
knowledge,  195;  new  inter- 
pretation, 198;  the  passing 
of  satire,  201  ;    the  displace- 


ment of  mere  physical  beau- 
ty by  pyschical  charm,  201; 
appreciation  of  the  values  of 
fallibility,  202  ;  transforma- 
tion of  the  love-story,  203; 
appreciation  of  maturity,  204 ; 
transfiguration  of  our  pri- 
mary relations,  204;  our  atti- 
tude toward  antiquity,  205; 
new  interpretations  of  the 
past,  206 ;  evolution  of  the 
human  imagination  from 
primitive  naturalism  to  its 
full  psychical  emancipation, 
209-220;  evolution  in  por- 
traiture of  life,  from  Fielding 
to  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  244; 
of  the  city,  248-252. 
Examiner,  the,  association  of 
Hunt  and  Hazlitt  with,  30; 
precursor  of  the  great  Lon- 
don literary  weeklies,  30. 

Fame,  not  consciously  the  goal 
of  a  great  writer,  109;  Cow- 
ley's comment  on,  no; 
change  in  the  conditions  af- 
fecting an  author's  immortali- 
ty, no;  the  new  audience, 
in;  memory  of  old  authors 
associated  with  Great  Events 
and  perpetuated  with  their 
record,  113;  modem  partner- 
ship of  author  with  reader  in 
familiar  communication,  113; 
temple  of  fame  displaced  by 
the  house  of  life,  118;  the 
prosperity  of  modern  authors 
mainly  with  their  own  gener- 
ation, 120. 

Feminism  of  modern  culture, 
58-64. 

Feuilleton,  the  first,  8. 

Fiction,  didacticism  of,  in 
eighteenth  century,  23;  Rich- 
ardson, Fielding,  Sterne.  Miss 
Edgeworth,  Hannah  More. 
Jane  Austen,  23;  conformity 


304 


INDEX 


of  eighteenth  century,  to 
actual  life,  24,  25;  excluded 
from  eighteenth-century  pe- 
riodicals, 25;  serial  publi- 
cation of  Smollett's  Sir 
Lancelot  Greaves  an  excep- 
tion, 26;  Walpole,  Mrs.  Rad- 
clifle,  26;  development  of 
fiction  after  1S50,  53,  54;.  su- 
preme interest  of,  psychical, 
67;  evil  in,  68;  effect  of  the 
novel  and  the  periodical  on 
literature,  iii;  popularity 
desirable,  121 -132;  narrow 
appeal  of  some  of  our  best 
novelists,  121-129;  novelist's 
own  fault  if  he  has  not  the 
mastery  of  popular  thought 
and  feeling,  129;  excessive  re- 
serve, 129;  great  masters  of 
the  past  had  the  excellence 
of  their  defects — those  of  the 
present  too  much  the  defects 
of  their  excellences,  132;  com- 
parative estimates  of  differ- 
ent periods  often  misleading, 
135;  the  course  of  Greek 
imaginative  literature,  135, 
136;  every  advance  in  evolu- 
tion involves  sacrifice  of  ele- 
mental force  for  structural 
excellence,  137;  individual- 
istic development,  138  ;  the 
eclipses  and  revivals  of  cer- 
tain individual  writers  at  dif- 
ferent periods,  138;  our  own 
age  the  only  one  having  a 
clear  and  complete  retrospect, 
139;  the  present,  while  ap- 
preciating, excludes  the  past, 
139,  140;  style  cannot  pass 
from  age  to  age  and  still  seem 
native  to  the  time,  141;  our 
development  largely  on  the 
side  of  our  sensibility,  141; 
our  satisfaction  with  past 
masterpieces  precludes  their 
repetition,  142;  authors  illus- 


trating modern  realism,  143; 
enlarged  scope  of  realistic  fic- 
tion,   143-1^3;   main  current 
of  English  fiction  of  the  last 
century,  domestic  and  social, 
155;  greater  flexile  ingenuity 
of    the    novelist,    combining 
the    masteries    of    the    other 
arts,  also  his  peril,  170,  171; 
nothing     denied     to     fiction 
which  is  of  human  concern, 
172,     173  ;     backgrounds    of 
novels    sometimes    more    in- 
teresting  than  the  dramatic 
situations,    as    in    Hichens's 
Garden    of    Allah,     176;     the 
greater  the  mastery  of  sub- 
jective psychical  pnenomena 
in   a   novel,   the   greater   the 
need     of     extension     of     its 
world    affiliations,     176;    our 
departure  from  the  Victorian 
era,    178- 181;    examples   of 
the    new    fiction    in    novels 
and   short   stories,   179,   180; 
Thomas    Hardy   and   George 
Meredith  prophets  of  the  new 
order,    180  ;    our  writers   not 
greater  than  the  old,  but  in 
the   advance,  and  appeal    to 
an  advanced  sensibility,  181; 
the  new  sensibility  a  sensibil- 
ity to  reality,  197;  a  new  kind 
of  realism,    197;   the  passing 
of    problem    fiction,    200;    of 
satire,    201;   available   values 
of  fallibility  as  in  Miss  Sin- 
clair's    The    Helpmate,    202; 
the    change    in    love-stories, 
203;     in     the     treatment    of 
primary  relations,    204;    real 
men    and    women    take    the 
place  of   villains  and   saints, 
205;  departure  from  old  forms 
and  mannerisms,  228;  Black- 
more,  James,  and   Meredith, 
228;    class    prejudice    under- 
mined by  modern  fiction,  236, 


305 


INDEX 


237;  fiction  accepts  all  hu- 
manity, past  and  present, 
237;  attitude  of  the  novelist 
characterized  by  sympathy 
rather  than  by  close  study, 
238  ;  George  Eliot's  motto 
"not  to  let  the  picture  lapse 
into  a  diagram,"  238;  the 
imaginative  writer  accepts 
life  on  its  own  living  terms, 
241;  evolution  in  portraiture 
from  Homer  to  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward,  244;  best  fiction 
of  to-day  has  more  construc- 
tive art  than  that  which  pre- 
ceded it,  246 ;  more  varied 
traits  instead  of  pronounced 
typical  features,  246;  more 
play  and  humor,  246 ;  the 
novelist  saved  from  taking 
himself  seriously,  247;  influ- 
ence of  fiction  in  widening 
the  sense  of  community,  255, 
256;  effacement  of  pro- 
vincial types  and  traits,  256; 
why  we  no  longer  look  for 
"the  great  American  novel," 
259;  abandonment  of  elab- 
oration in  plot  and  style,  267, 
268. 

Fielding,  Henry,  his  Champion 
and  Covent  Garden  Journal, 
22;  reaction  against  Richard- 
son, 23. 

Fortnightly  Review,  edited  by 
John  Morley,  temporarily  by 
George  Meredith,  37;  Antho- 
ny Trollope's  active  part  in 
establishing,  37. 

Frankfurter  Journal,  the  first 
printed  newspaper  in  Europe, 
a  weekly,  6. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  his  Gen- 
eral Magazine  prompted  by 
the  success  of  the  English 
Gentleman's  Magazine,   44. 

Freeman,  E.  A.,  contributor  to 
the  Saturday  Review,  51. 


Froude,  James  Anthony,  editor 

of  Fraser's,  37. 
Fuller,     Margaret,     contributor 

to  New  York  Tribune,  41;  to 

the  Dial,  47. 

Garrick,  David,  fellow-travel- 
ler with  Dr.  Johnson  to  Lon- 
don, 12. 

Gay,  John,  profits  from  his  Beg- 
gar's Opera,  9;  his  plays  de- 
graded  by  the    Restoration, 

9- 
Genius,  reaction   of,  upon    the 

world,  166-177;  plasticity  of, 
the  ground  of  miracle,  but 
structural  strength  essential 
to  consistency  of  character 
and  work,  168,  171;  progress 
owes  more  to  genius  than 
genius  to  progress,  169  ;  in- 
genuity as  a  trait  of  genius, 
deeper  than  artifice,  168,  169; 
assimilation  of — its  appetite 
and  seizure,  172. 

Gentleman  s  Journal,  establish- 
ed by  Peter  Motteux,  germ  of 
the  popular  monthly  maga- 
zine, 12. 

Gentleman's  Magazine,  estab- 
lished by  Edward  Cave  ("  Syl- 
vanus  Urban,  Gent."),  the 
first  popular  monthly,  12; 
reports  in,  of  parliamentary 
debates,  12;  long  career  of, 
12;  Dr.  Johnson's  association 
with,  13;  circulation  of,  in- 
creased by  Dr.  Johnson,  13; 
Akenside's  poetical  contribu- 
tions to,  28. 

GifiEord,  William,  editor  of  the 
London  Quarterly  Review,  29. 

Globe,  the  London,  "Father 
Prout  (Francis  O'Mahony), 
Paris  correspondent  of,  40. 

Goodrich,  S.  G.  ("  Peter  Parley  ") 
his  annual,  the  Token,  con- 
tributed   to    by   Hawthorne 

06 


INDEX 


and  Bryant,  46;  edited  in 
1829  by  N.  P.  Willis,  47. 

Graham's  Magazine,  in  1843  the 
most  popular  miscellany  in 
America,  45. 

Gray,  Thomas,  serial,  after  book, 
publication  of  his  Elegy,  8, 
26;  revolt  from  the  artificial 
style,  25. 

Great  events,  immortality  of 
old  authors  associated  with, 
113;  poetry  rather  than  fic- 
tion inspired  by,   154,   155. 

Guardian,  the,  contributed  to 
by  Steele,  9. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  his 
"Marco  Bozzaris,"  published 
in  the  New  York  Review,  46. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  contributor  to 
Cornhill,  36  ;  his  traits  as  a 
novelist  preserved  in  his  re- 
cent epic  drama,  "The  Dy- 
nasts," 155;  portrayal  of 
peasant  life,  256;  relation  to 
the  new  literature,  256;  be- 
longs to  purely  creative  or- 
der of  genius,  291;  he  and 
Mark  Twain  come  nearer  to 
ample  illustration  of  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  new  litera- 
ture, 292. 

Harper's  Magazine,  articles  of 
travel  in,  brought  to  Black- 
wood's attention  by  Sir 
Richard  Burton,  35;  circum- 
stances of  its  origin,  49;  no 
great  American  writers  of 
fiction  when  it  started  in 
1850,  50;  best  English  fiction 
published  serially  in,  51;  its 
stimulation  of  artists,  51;  de- 
velopment of  its  type,  53. 

Hawkesworth,  Dr.  John,  estab- 
lished the  Adventurer,  assist- 
ed by  Dr.  Bathurst. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  con- 
tributor to  "Peter  Parley's" 


Token,  46;  to  the  New  York 
Mirror,  47;  to  Lowell's  maga- 
zine, the  Pioneer,  47;  to  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  48. 

Hazlitt,  William,  contributor  to 
the  Examiner,  30;  his  political 
work  in  the  Morning  Chron- 
icle, 40;  his  prose,  116. 

Heathcote' s  Intelligencer,  Robin- 
son Crusoe  republished  seri- 
ally in,  8. 

Hemans,  Mrs.  Felicia,  contribu- 
tor to  Blackwood's,  34. 

Herrick,  Robert,  dependent  on 
living  of  Dean  Prior  given 
him  by  Charles  I. 

Hichens,  Robert,  association 
with  the  London  World,  4 1 ; 
his  Garden  of  Allah,  176. 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno,  first 
editor  of  the  Knickerbocker 
Magazine,  48. 

Hogg,  James,  the  "Ettrick 
Shepherd,"  associated  with 
Blackwood' s  Magazine,  32. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  began 
his  "Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table" in  the  New  Eng- 
land Magazine,  47. 

Hood,  Thomas,  contributor  to 
London  Magazine,  29;  poems 
of,  published  in  his  own  maga- 
zine,   29. 

Hook,  Theodore,  editor  of  Col- 
burn's  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, 29. 

Howells,  William  Dean,  editor 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  52; 
his  "Venetian  Days"  in  the 
Boston  Advertiser,  54;  the 
leading  exponent  and  inter- 
preter of  the  new  movement 
in  literature,  180. 

Hughes,  Thomas,  his  "Tom 
Brown  at  Oxford,"  a  serial 
in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  38. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  editor  of  the  Lib- 
eral, 30;  writer  in  the  Exam- 


31 


307 


INDEX 


iner,  Indicator,  Companion, 
and  Talker,  30  ;  associated 
with  Hazlitt  in  Examiner,  30; 
attacked  in  Blackwood's,  32. 

Idler,  the,  started  by  Dr.  John- 
son in  1758,  19;  contributed 
to  by  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
Bennet  Langton,  19. 

Imagination:  marvellous  crea- 
tions of,  in  plastic  stage  of 
human  evolution,  137;  scope 
of,  in  modern  realism,  146- 
153;  creative  values,  154-165; 
these  values  transcend  those 
of  physical,  mental,  and  moral 
efficiency,  157-165;  imagina- 
tion the  most  distinctive  of 
the  original  powers  of  the 
human  spirit,  158;  the  effects 
of  this  power,  159;  its  mani- 
festation in  human  life,  159- 
162;  normal  decadence,  162; 
freedom  of  imaginative  se- 
lection in  literature,  the  only 
advantage  over  the  sponta- 
neous creations  of  imagina- 
tion in  life,  164;  ingenuity  as 
a  trait  of  genius,  168-170; 
earliest  projections  of  the  im- 
agination, 186,  187  ;  signifi- 
cance of  these  in  mythology, 
poetry,  and  the  plastic  arts, 
as  illustrated  in  Hellenic  de- 
velopment, 191;  the  medie- 
val deepening  of  imaginative 
sensibility,  192;  the  transition 
from  Dante  to  Wordsworth  in- 
volves a  more  radical  change, 
192;  the  imagination  finds 
its  true  centre  of  harmony  in 
the  new  psychical  era,  197; 
the  thought  concerning  the 
dead  as  affecting  the  imagi- 
nation in  different  periods  of 
human  history,  209-218;  crea- 
tive within  narrow  limits  in 
the    primitive    realism,    211, 


212;  from  the  bond  of  natural- 
ism to  the  tyranny  of  symbol- 
ism, 214;  the  provincial  imag- 
ination escaped  confinement 
through  its  Hellenic  emanci- 
pation, becoming  projective 
in  mythology  and  art,  216; 
the  continuing  dominance  of 
the  older  motives,  216;  oc- 
cult influences  revived  in 
mediaeval  magic  and  as- 
trology, 216,  217;  the  world 
sense  of  the  imaginatioh,  as 
distinguished  from  its  old 
provincial  sense,  has  created 
the  new  realism,  221  ;  con- 
tact with  the  main  currents 
of  life,  226;  the  imagination 
works  after  a  hidden  pattern 
in  life  and  literature,  239- 
247;  accepts  life  in  its  living 
terms  and  Nature  for  what 
she  really  is,  240,  241;  sub- 
dued to  a  natural  compass 
of  exaltation,  243;  the  chro- 
matic harmony,  243,  244;  as- 
sociation of  imagination  with 
the  old  and  with  the  new  aris- 
tocracy, 264;  the  old  art  and 
the  new,  272-282. 
Irving,  Washington,  his  Knick- 
erbocker's History  of  New  York, 
43 ;  association  with  Thomas's 
Analectic  Magazine.  43. 

James,  Henry,  contributor  to 
Cornhill,  36  ;  most  advanced 
type  of  psychical  novelist,  68, 
180;  his  style,  231. 

James,  William,  his  Pragmatism. 
143-146. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  one  of  the 
founders  and  second  editor  of 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  20. 

Jeffries,  Richard,  at  first  jour- 
nalist on  a  local  country  news- 
paper, afterward  contributor 
to  Eraser's,  38. 

08 


INDEX 


Jenyns,  Soame,  contributor  to 
the  World,  22. 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  teacher 
at  Lichfield,  12;  goes  to  Lon- 
don with  Garrick,  12;  as- 
sociation of,  with  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,  13;  reporter 
of  "Parliamentary  Debates," 
13;  his  didacticism,  15;  per- 
sonal and  mental  character- 
istics, 16;  dictator  in  liter- 
ary circles,  16;  violently  weak 
preceptor  and  critic,  17;  his 
most  characteristic  writing  in 
the  Rambler,  18;  contribu- 
tions to  the  Adventurer,  18; 
tribute  to  Addison's  style,  18; 
comi)letion  of  Dictionary,  19; 
his  afternoon  levees,  19;  not 
a  successful  humorist,  19  ; 
his  Idler,  contributed  to  also 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
Bennet  Langton,  19;  his  pro- 
jected Bibliotheque ,  20;  as- 
sociation with  the  Literary 
Magazine;  his  Rasselas,  21, 
96;  pension  from  George  IIL, 
21;  his  death  in  1784,  21. 

"Junius,"  letters  of,  in  the  Pub- 
lic Advertiser,  39. 

KiNGLAKE,  A.  W.,  contributor 
to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  34. 

Kingsley,  Charles,  his  "  Water 
Babies"  published  in  Mac- 
millan's    Magazine,    38. 

Kinship,  earliest  bond,  211, 
212;  the  new  psychical  sense 
of,  226,  265. 

Knickerbocker  Magazine,  the, 
Charles  Fcnno  Hoffman  first 
editor  of,  48;  contributed  to 
by  Hawthorne,  Irving,  and 
nearly  every  important 
writer  of  its  time,  48;  Long- 
fellow's "Psalm  of  Life" 
first  appeared  in,  anony- 
mously, 48. 


Lamb,  Charles,  his  "Elia" 
essays  in  the  London  Maga- 
zine, 29;  his  love  of  antiquity, 
116,  233. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  a  con- 
tributor to  Blackwood's,  34. 

Langton,  Bennet,  friend  of  Dr. 

iohnson  and  contributor  to 
is  Idler,  19. 

Lever,  Charles,  contributions  of, 
to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  34. 

Liberal,  the,  planned  by  Byron, 
Shelley,  and  Leigh  Hunt, 
edited  by  Hunt,  30;  Byron's 
"Vision  of  Judgment"  open- 
ing the  first  number,  30. 

Literary  Magazine,  Dr.  John- 
son's association  with,  21. 

Literary IMagazine,  Philadelphia, 
established  by  Charles  Brock- 
den  Brown,  43. 

Literature,  reasons  for  late  de- 
velopment of,  in  America,  50; 
quick  sensibility  to  best  Eng- 
lish, in  America,  50,  loi;  suc- 
cessive styles  in  the  evolu- 
tion of,  for  two  centuries, 
first  registered  in  the  peri- 
odical, 55;  the  American  au- 
dience, 56-68,  79;  justifica- 
tion of  new  literary  styles, 
51,  57;  deterioration  of  liter- 
ature by  New  England  ma- 
trons complained  against  by 
Mrs.  Peattie,  55,  66;  new  spirit 
manifested  in  California  and 
the  Middle  West,  57-67;  fem- 
inism of  culture,  especially 
evident  in  the  Middle  West 
and  on  the  Pacific  coast,  58, 
64— T-a  modern  characteristic 
everywhere  in  America  and 
England,  63;  contrary  con- 
ditions in  California  thirty 
years  ago,  58;  modem  liter- 
ature confronts  the  truth 
of  life,  67;  reaction  against 
and    recurrence    of   the    ele- 


309 


INDEX 


mental  in  literary  cycles,  74- 
77;  perils  of  commercialism 
from  changed  conditions  of 
publication,  102;  breach  with 
antiquity,  no;  old  authors 
associated  with  Great  Events, 
113;  differences  between  the 
old  and  the  modern  audience, 
113,  114;  prose  developed  at 
the  expense  of  poetry,  114; 
new  attitude  toward  nature 
and  life,  118;  inspiration  of 
science,  119;  popularity  de- 
sirable, 1 2 1- 13 2;  why  many 
of  our  best  authors  lack  the 
wide  appeal,  1 21-13 2;  early 
work  of  great  authors  usual- 
ly most  popular,  125;  con- 
trary instances,  126;  eman- 
cipation of  the  modern  au- 
dience from  old  habits  and 
traditions,  127;  but  the  al- 
liance of  faith  and  romance 
with  the  creative  imagination 
remains  unbroken,  128;  real- 
ity in  knowledge  and  por- 
trayal of  life,  143;  some  mod- 
ern examples  in  fiction,  143; 
a  large  reactionary  audience, 
146;  our  advance  is  in  the 
field  of  our  perceptions  in 
our  real  knowledge  through 
physical  and  psychical  sen- 
sibility simultaneously  de- 
veloped, 151;  ours  the  mild 
season  of  literature,  154; 
poetry  rather  than  fiction 
inspired  by  Great  Events,  1 54 ; 
gains  of  literature  from  ev- 
olution through  permissive 
conditions  afforded  by  prog- 
ress, 164,  165;  structural 
strength  essential  to  con- 
sistency, 168;  the  new  lit- 
erature born  with  the  new 
psychical  era,  195;  our  real 
literature  has  no  stock  -  in- 
trade  accumulated  from  old 


stores,  228  ;  has  dismissed 
old  locutions  and  perfuncto- 
ry phrasing  and  syntax,  228; 
craftsmanship  of  Ho  we  lis, 
228;  modem  interpretation 
of  the  past,  235;  chromatic 
harmony  and  variety,  243, 
244;  modern  urbanity,  253— 
259;  modern  decentralization 
of  literary  life,  253;  litera- 
ture has  widened  the  sense 
of  community,  255;  American 
sensibility  to  literature  has 
always  been  cosmopolitan, 
257,  258;  the  new  aristoc- 
racy, 264  ;  imaginative  liter- 
ature and  music,  264,  277, 
278;  grace,  play,  and  humor, 
266-271;  new  excellences  not 
canonical,  267;  the  new  art 
of  prose,  272-282;  the  pros- 
pect of  imaginative  literature, 
284-295. 

Lockhart,  J.  G.,  associated  with 
Blackwood's,  32;  succeeded 
Gifford  as  editor  of  Murray's 
London  Quarterly  Review,  33; 
aversion  to  periodical  litera- 
ture, 85;  connection  with  duel 
in  which  John  Scott,  the  edi- 
tor of  the  London  Magazine 
was  killed,  85. 

London,  centre  of  polite  litera- 
ture in  eighteenth  century, 
1 1 ;  population  of,  in  Dr.  John- 
son's time,  13;  extent  of  the 
"polite  town,"   13. 

London  Magazine,  the,  rival  to 
Gentleman's  Magazine,   21. 

London  Magazine,  started  a 
century  later  than  the  fore- 
going, contributed  to  by  De 
Quincey,  Lamb,  Hood,  Cun- 
ningham, Talfourd,  Procter, 
Hartley  Coleridge,  and  the 
peasant-poet  Clare,  29. 

London  Quarterly  Review,  sug- 
gested to  Murray  by  Sir  Wal- 


310 


INDEX 


tcr  Scott,  20;  under  GifTord's 
editorship,  29;  edited  by  Lock- 
hart,  is. 

Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  con- 
tributions of,  to  North  Ameri- 
can Review,  44;  his  "Spanish 
Student"  in  Graham's  Maga- 
zine, 45;  his  poem,  "The 
Psalm  of  Life,  '  first  pub- 
lished anonymously  in  the 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  48. 

Lounger,  the,  succeeding  the 
Mirror  (Edinburgh),  contrib- 
uted to  by  Henry  Mackenzie, 
22. 

Lover,  Samuel,  editor  of  Dublin 
University  Magazine,  35. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  editor  of 
North  American  Review,  44; 
starts  the  Pioneer,  47;  editor 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  52. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babing- 
TON,  essays  in  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, first  published  in  book 
form  in  America,  10 1. 

Mackenzie,  Henry,  contributor 
to  Edinburgh  Mirror  and 
Lounger,  22. 

Mactnillan's  I\Iagazinc,   37. 

Magazine,  the  monthly;  first 
example  of  successful,  the 
Gentleman's  Alagazine,  12; 
emergence  of,  together  with 
the  novel,  14;  helped  to 
abolish  pedantry  and  secure 
independence  of  writers,  14; 
the  London  Alagazine,  rival 
to  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 
2 1 ;  the  Scots  Magazine,  con- 
tinued as  the  Edi}ihurgh  Mag- 
azine, 21;  the  (new)  London 
Alagazine,  29;  Colbum's  New 
Alonthly,  29;  the  Aletropolitan, 
29;  Blackwood's,  31;  Bentley's 
Aliscellany,  36;  the  Alonthly 
Alagazine,  with  Dickens's 
first  story  (1833),  36;    Fra- 


ser's  36;  Cornhill,  36;  Alac- 
tnillan's  Magazine,  ^y.  Amer- 
ican :  Dennie's  Portfolio,  43  ; 
Charles  Brockden  Brown's 
Literary  Alagazine,  43;  Moses 
Thomas' s^Analectic  Magazine, 
43;  Graham's  Alagazine,  45; 
New  York  Monthly  Review, 
46;  the  Broadway  Journal,  47; 
the  New  England  Alagazine, 
47;  the  Southern  Literary  Mes- 
senger, 46;  Lowell's  Pioneer, 
47  ;  Harper's  Alagazine  and 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  49;  un- 
der pledge  to  exclude  im- 
proprieties, 68 ;  scope  of  a 
first  -  class  American  maga- 
zine, 69-79;  educational  func- 
tion diminishing,  69  ;  may 
exclude  specialties  and  even 
timely  topics,  69 ;  principle  of 
selection — the  near  and  in- 
timate note  preferred — the 
theme  of  human  interest,  70; 
recent  prominence  of  nature 
sketches,  71  ;  summation  of 
features  outside  of  fiction, 
71,  72;  fiction  often  serves 
the  puqjose  of  essays  and 
articles  in  interpretation  of 
life  past  and  present.  72;  the 
same  quality  of  excellence  in 
magazines  as  in  books,  72; 
the  elemental  not  excluded, 
but  most  effectively  treated 
by  the  best  writers,  77;  ac- 
commodation not  expected 
of  contributors.  78;  what  the 
magazine  has  done  for  writ- 
ers and  artists,  79;  advan- 
tages of  anonymity  and  the 
justification  of  its  abandon- 
ment, 80-92;  peril  to  maga- 
zine literature  from  placing 
the  name  of  the  writer  be- 
fore the  real  value  of  his  con- 
tribution, 88,  89;  apprecia- 
tion of  the  new  and  unknown 


311 


INDEX 


writer,  90-92.  See  "Periodi- 
cal Literature." 

Marryat.  Captain  Frederick,  edi- 
tor of  the  Metropolitan,  in 
which  many  of  his  sea  tales 
were  published,  30. 

Masson,  David,  biographer  of 
Milton,  first  editor  of  Mac- 
niillan's  Magazine,   37. 

Maurice,  Frederick  Denison,  edi- 
tor of  the  Athenasum,  31. 

Meredith,  George,  literary  ad- 
viser of  Chapman  &  Hall,  36; 
advised  Thomas  Hardy  not 
to  publish  his  first  written 
novel,  36;  temporary  editor 
of  Fortnightly  Review,  in 
which  several  of  his  novels 
appeared,  37;  his  "Advent- 
ures of  Harry  Richmond," 
in  Cornhill,  37;  editor,  at  first, 
of  a  local  paper,  afterward  war 
correspondent  of  the  Morning 
Post,  40;  masterfulness  of,  in 
his  fiction,  limited  his  popu- 
larity, 124. 

Milnes,  Robert  Monckton  (Lord 
Houghton),  correspondent  of 
the  Tifnes,  40. 

Milton,  as  a  pamphleteer,  7;  Ad- 
dison's appreciation  of,  106. 

Mirror,  the  Edinburgh,  suc- 
ceeded by  the  Lounger,  both 
contributed  to  by  Henry 
Mackenzie,    22. 

Mirror,  the  New  York,  Poe's 
"Raven"  in,  46;  edited  by 
N.  P.  Willis,  and  contributed 
to  by  Hawthorne,  Motley, 
Park  Benjamin,  and  Albert 
Pike,    47. 

Mitchell,  Donald  G.,  lifetime 
of,  spans  the  whole  course  of 
American  literature,  42. 

Montagu,  Mrs.  Elizabeth, 
"  Queen  of  the  Blues,"  copied 
the  whole  of  the  Spectator 
before  her  ninth  year,   1 1 . 


Montgomery,  James,  the  poet, 
editor  of  a  local  paper,  40. 

Monthly  Magazine,  the,  Dick- 
ens's first  story  in,  36. 

Monthly  Review,  the  (English), 
started  by  Ralph  Griffiths, 
first  of  the  modern  type,  20. 

Monthly  Review,  the  New  York, 
Bryant's  editorial  connection 
with,  46. 

Moore,  Edward,  editor  of  the 
London  World,  22. 

Moore,  Tom,  lyrics  of,  in  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  39;  pay- 
ment for  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  97. 

More,  Hannah,  in  the  green  and 
in  the  dry,  23,  24. 

Morning  Chronicle,  Hazlitt's  po- 
litical work  in,  40;  Dickens  on 
the  staff  of,  40. 

Morning  Post,  London,  contrib- 
uted to  by  Coleridge,  Southey, 
Arthur  Young,  Mackworth 
Praed,  Tom  Moore,  and 
Wordsworth,  39;  Coleridge's 
articles  in.  Fox  said  led  to  rup- 
ture of  the  treaty  of  Amiens, 
40;  George  Meredith  special 
correspondent  of,  40. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  contrib- 
utor to  the  New  York  Mirror, 

47- 

Murray,  John,  publisher  of  Lon- 
don Quarterly  Review,  20,  29. 

Museum,  the,  literary  magazine 
and  review,  20. 

Music,  modern,  alignment  of, 
with  modern  imaginative 
prose,  277. 

New  England  Magazine,  Dr. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes's 
"Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast- 
Table"  begun  in,  47. 

New  Monthly  Magazine,  Col- 
burn's,  29;  Dickens's  early 
contributions  to  (1834),  36. 

Newspapers:   first,    the  Frank- 


312 


INDEX 


ftirtcr  Journal,  1615,  a  week- 
ly, 6;  first  in  England,  Weekly 
News  (1621),  6;  no  English 
daily  till  close  of  seventeenth 
century,  6;  the  daily  first  a 
successful  venture  in  London 
in  1703,  7;  the  Examiner, 
Swift's  organ,  7;  Wilkes's 
North  Briton,  22  ;  letters  of 
"Junius"  in  the  Public  Adver- 
tiser, 39;  Coleridge,  Southey, 
Arthur  Young,  Mackworth 
Praed,  Tom  Moore,  Words- 
worth, and,  later,  George 
Meredith  contributed  to  the 
Morning  Post,  39,  40;  the 
poet  Montgomery,  De  Quin- 
cey,  and  George  Meredith 
editors  of  local  newspapers, 
40;  Dickens  on  the  staff  of 
the  Morning  Chronicle,  in 
which,  earlier,  Hazlitt  had 
done  his  most  important 
political  work,  40;  Laurence 
Oliphant  and  Richard  Monck- 
ton  Milnes,  regular  corre- 
spondents and  Thackeray 
literary  critic  of  the  London 
Times,  40;  "Father  Prout," 
Paris  correspondent  of  the 
Globe,  40;  Robert  Hichens, 
associated  with  the  London 
World,  41 ;  publicists  in  Amer- 
ica, 41;  Margaret  Fuller  in 
New  York  Tribune,  41;  Bay- 
ard Taylor  and  Mark  Twain 
first  newspaper  writers,  41; 
Whittier  editor  of  the  £55^:^ 
Gazette,  and  William  Gilmore 
Simms  of  the  Charleston  City 
Gazette,  41;  Bryant,  editor  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post, 
46;  Whitman's  weekly  news- 
paper, the  Long  Islander,  48; 
Lowell's  first  series  of  "  Big- 
low  Papers"  in  the  Boston 
Courier,  54;  Charles  Dudley 
Warner's  "My  Summer  in  a 


Garden"  in  the  Hartford 
Conrant,  5^;  Howells's  "Ve- 
netian Days"  in  the  Boston 
Advertiser,   54. 

Nineteenth  century,  Walpole's 
prophecy  concerning,  27; 
Scott  and  Byron  leading  fig- 
ures at  the  opening  of,  27; 
heyday  of  poetry  before  the 
middle  of,  27;  periodical  lit- 
erature, 27-38;  new  order 
of  imaginative  literature  in 
poetry,  criticism,  and  fiction, 
38;  eminent  authors  in  jour- 
nalism, 39-41  ;  relation  of  sci- 
ence to  literature,  iiq;  fiction 
of  the  Victorian  era  prophetic 
of  our  own  —  Meredith  and 
Hardy,  180. 

Nineteenth -century  literature, 
early,  as  compared  with  that 
of  the  preceding  century  and 
a  half,  28. 

North  American  Review,  grew 
out  of  the  Anthology  Maga- 
zine, started  in  Boston  by 
the  Anthology  Club,  founded 
by  Phineas  Adams,  43;  marks 
the  beginning  of  American 
literature,  44;  has  numbered 
among  its  contributors  nearly 
every  great  American  writer, 
44;  the  elder  Dana,  Edward 
Everett,  James  Russell  Low- 
ell, Charles  Eliot  Norton 
among  its  eminent  editors, 
44;  Bryant's  "  Thanatopsis " 
in,  44;  Longfellow's  and  Pres- 
cott's    contributions    to,    44. 

Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  editor  of 
the  North  American  Review, 
44. 

Novel,  the :  emerged  in  the  same 
generation  as  the  popular 
monthly  magazine,  14;  Rich- 
ardson's Pamela,  14;  trans- 
formation of  literature  in  the 
nineteenth    century    effected 


2>^2, 


INDEX 


by  the  novel  and  periodical 
combined/iii.  See  "Fiction." 

Oliphant,  Laurence,  contrib- 
utor to  Blackwood's,  34;  cor- 
respondent of  the  Times,  40. 

Oliphant,  Mrs.  Margaret,  con- 
tributor to  Blackwood's,  34. 

O'Mahoney,  Francis  ("Father 
Prout"),  Paris  correspond- 
ent of  the  London  Globe,  40. 

Pamphleteers:  Milton,  Swift, 
and  Defoe,  70. 

Parker,  Sir  Gilbert,  his  novel. 
The  Weavers — its  Egyptian 
background,    175. 

Past,  the,  our  truest  apprecia- 
tion of,  because  of  our  breach 
with  antiquity,  234-236,  240. 

Pater,  Walter,  contributions  of, 
to  Macmillan' s  Magazine,  the 
Westminster  and  Fortnightly 
reviews,  and  Harper's  Mag- 
azine, 38;  true  modern  inter- 
preter of  the  past,  235. 

Patronage  of  authors  in  and  be- 
fore the  eighteenth  century, 
9;  dependence  upon,  relieved 
by  the  novel  and  the  popular 
periodical,  14. 

Paulding,  J.  K.,  association  of, 
with  Moses  Thomas's  Analec- 
tic  Magazine,  43. 

Peattie,  Mrs.  Elia  W.,  her  com- 
plaint against  New  England 
matrons,  65  ;  plea  for  una- 
bashed sentiment,  64. 

Pedantry  abolished  by  the  novel 
and  the  popular  periodical 
combined,  14. 

Periodical  literature:  calendary 
folk-lore  and  poetry,  4;  early 
English  periodicals,  5-14; 
none  for  a  century  and  a  half 
after  the  use  of  types,  6;  be- 
ginnings of  the  newspaper, 
6;  the  Examiner,  Swift's  or- 


gan, 7;  Defoe's  Review,  7,  8; 
coffee-house  periodicals,  10- 
12;  the  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, first  popular  monthly, 
the    London    Magazine, 


12 


21  ;  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson's 
association  with  the  Gentle- 
m.ans  Magazine,  13 — with  the 
Rambler,  19  —  with  the  Lit- 
erary Magazine,  21  ;  biblio- 
graphical character  of  earliest 
literary  periodicals  at  the  end 
of  the  seventeenth  century, 
20;  development  of  reviews: 
the  Museum,  Monthly  Review, 
Critical  Review,  Edinburgh 
Review,  London  Quarterly  Re- 
view, 20;  Literary  Magazine, 
21;  influence  of  periodical 
literature  in  freeing  writers 
from  dependence  on  patron- 
age, 14 — in  the  development 
of  elegant  and  idiomatic 
prose,  14;  essay  periodical 
characteristic  of  eighteenth 
century,  22 — usually  started 
and  owned  by  individuals, 
22 — contributions  to,  anony- 
mous, 22,  23;  exclusion  of 
fiction  in  eighteenth  century, 
25;  serial  publication  of  Smol- 
lett's Sir  Lancelot  Greaves 
in  the  British  Magazine  an 
exception,  26;  political  dis- 
cussion and  literary  criticism 
prominent  features  before 
last  half  of  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, 28;  the  (new)  London 
Magazine,  29;  Colburn's  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  29;  the 
Aletropolitan,  29;  the  Liber- 
al, 30;  the  Examiner,  precur- 
sor of  the  great  London  liter- 
ary weeklies — the  Athenceum, 
Spectator,  Saturday  Review, 
et  al.,  30;  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, 3 1 ;  Bentley's  Miscellany, 
36  ;  Dickens's  All  The   Year 


314 


INDEX 


Round  and  Household  Words, 
36;  Monthly  Magazine,  with 
Dickens's  first  story,  36; 
Eraser's,  36;  Cornhtll,  36; 
Fortnightly  Review,  36;  Mac- 
millan's  Magazine,  Tennyson, 
Charles  Kingsley,  Carlyle, 
Pater,  Sir  George  Trevelyan, 
George  EHot,  Matthew  Ar- 
nold, Gladstone,  Anthony 
Trollope,  Stevenson,  Besant, 
Leslie  Stephen,  and  Cardinal 
Manning,  contributors,  37, 
38;  eminent  nineteenth -cen- 
tury writers  associated  with 
newspapers,  39-41;  American 
periodicals,  42-45;  Dennie's 
Portfolio,  contributed  to  by 
John  Quincy  Adams,  43; 
Charles  Brockden  Brown's 
Literary  Alagazine,  43 ;  Moses 
Thomas's  Analectic  Maga- 
zine, contributed  to  by  Ir- 
ving, its  editor,  and  by  J. 
K.  Paulding  and  Wilson,  the 
ornithologist,  43;  the  growth 
of  the  North  American  Re- 
view out  of  the  Anthology 
Magazine,  43;  Benjamin 
Franklin's  General  ]\Iagazine, 
44;  Graham's  Alagazine,  in 
1843  the  most  popular  lit- 
erary miscellany  in  America, 
45;  the  Atlantic  Magazine, 
afterward  the  New  York 
Monthly  Review,  46;  United 
States  Literary  Gazette  (Bos- 
ton), 46;  "Peter  Parley's" 
Token,  46;  American  Whig 
Review,  contributed  to  by 
Poe,  46;  the  New  York  Mir- 
ror, 46;  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  edited  by  Poe,  46; 
the  Broadway  Journal,  the 
New  England  Magazine,  con- 
tributed to  by  Dr.  Holmes, 
47;  N.  P.  Willis's  Corsair, 
contributed  to  by  Thackeray, 


47;  the  Home  Journal,  con- 
trilDuted  to  by  Aldrich,  47; 
Lowell's  Pioneer,  contributed 
to  by  Hawthorne,  Poe,  Whit- 
tier,  and  Elizabeth  Barrett, 
afterward  Mrs.  Browning,  47; 
origin  of  Harper's  Alagazine 
and  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
■  49;  these  two  types  repeated, 
with  important  modifications, 
in  other  great  magazines  since 
established,  49  ;  exceptional 
development  and  importance 
of  periodical  literature  in 
America,  49;  evolution  of  lit- 
erature for  two  centuries  first 
registered  in  the  periodical, 
55;  the  American  audience, 
56-68,  79;  specialization,  69; 
cycles  in  literature,  involv- 
ing recrudescences,  74-79;  the 
passing  of  anonymity,  80- 
92;  periodical  writing  not  in 
high  esteem  before  1840,  85; 
combined  with  fiction  effect- 
ed a  transformation  of  litera- 
ture, III. 

Philadelphia,  early  prominence 
of,  as  a  magazine  centre,  45. 

Philosophical  Magazine,  Crabbe 
first  inclined  to  verse  by  poe- 
try in,  28. 

Pioneer,  the,  magazine  started 
by  James  Russell  Lowell,  con- 
tributed to  by  Hawthorne, 
Poe,  Whittier,  and  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  afterward  Mrs. 
Browning,  47. 

Playwriting  only  source  of  profit 
in  literature  before  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  9. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  his  "  Raven," 
contributed  to  the  American 
Whig  Review,  first  published 
by  permission  in  the  New 
York  Mirror,  46;  editor  of 
Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
46;  associated  with  Charles  F, 


31.S 


INDEX 


Briggs  on  the  Broadway  Jour- 
vmI,  47. 

Poetry,  prizes  offered  for,  in  Getj- 
tleman's  Magazine,  12;  book 
publication  for,  preferred,  26; 
found  in  special  periodicals, 
like  the  Philosophical  Maga- 
zine, 28;  reversion  of,  to  nature 
in  Gray,  Collins,  Shenston, 
Young,  Beattie,  Goldsmith, 
and  Burns,  25;  large  profits 
from,  before  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  99;  why 
the  production  of  poetry  is  less 
encouraged  in  our  day  than 
that  of  prose,  142;  more  in- 
spired by  great  events  than 
modern  fiction  is,  154;  has 
its  renascence  in  imaginative 
prose,  207. 

Pollock's"  Course  of  Time,"  suc- 
cess of,  99. 

Pope,  Alexander,  contributor 
to  the  Spectator,  9;  Dryden's 
natural  successor,  15;  outdid 
his  master  in  "wit-writing," 
15;  his  superficial  didacticism, 
15;  indebtedness  to  Shaftes- 
bury, 1 6  ;  criticised  by  the 
Warton  brothers,  25. 

Popularity;  why  many  of  our 
best  authors  lack  the  wide  ap- 
peal, 1 21-13  2;  popular  writers 
of  the  past,  122-125;  master- 
fulness of  Victorian  novelists 
—  of  Dickens,  of  Charles 
Reade,  of  Wilkie  Collins,  123; 
exclusiveness  of  George  Mere- 
dith, 124;  early  works  of  great 
writers  usually  the  most  pop- 
ular, 125. 

"  Porte  Crayon"  (D.  H.  Stroth- 
er),  51. 

Portfolio,  the,  established  by 
Joseph  Dennie,  contributed 
to  by  John  Quincy  Adams, 
43;  extracts  in,  from  British 
books  and  periodicals,  50. 


Praed,  Mackworth,  society  verse 
of,  in  the  Morning  Post,  39. 

Prescott,  William  H.,  contribu- 
tions of,  to  the  North  Ameri- 
can Review,  44. 

Printing,  why  the  ancients  had 
no  use  for,  5;  numbers  of  books 
before,  4. 

Prizes  of  authorship:  confined 
to  playwriting  before  the 
eighteenth  century,  9;  Gray's 
profit  from  The  Beggar's  Op- 
era, 9;  payments  for  Black- 
wood's Magazine,  disguised 
as  honoraria,  88  ;  Dr.  John- 
son's profit  from  Rasselas, 
96  ;  Blackwood's  payments 
for  novels,  97;  small  editions 
of  j  costly  books  netted  large 
profits,  97;  Longmans'  pay- 
ment to  Tom  Moore  for 
"Lalla  Rookh,"  97;  Byron's 
refusal  of  Murray's  oiler  of 
£1000  for  the  "Siege  of 
Corinth"  and  "  Parisina,"  97, 
98;  comparison  of  Bryant's 
and  Pope's  profits  [from  the 
translation  of  Homer,  98; 
payments  to  poets,  99;  suc- 
cess of  Pollock's  "Course  of 
Time,"  99  ;  Coleridge  paid 
ten  guineas  a  sheet  in  Black- 
wood's Magazine,  10 1;  pay- 
ments for  contributions  to 
Edinburgh  Review,  loi; 
Bryant  ofl^ered  his  poems  to 
the  Boston  Literary  Gazette 
at  two  dollars  apiece,  loi; 
Longfellow  and  Prescott  got 
a  dollar  a  page  in  the  North 
American  Review,  loi;  Thack- 
eray's strike  for  higher  pay  in 
Eraser's  Magazine,  107. 

Procter  ("Barry  Cornwall"), 
contributor  to  London  Maga- 
zine, 29. 

Progress  :  experimentation  as 
distinguished  from  evolution. 


;i6 


INDEX 


163;  at  its  root  evolutionary, 
why  we  distinguish  it  from 
evolution,  163,  166;  immense 
advantage  of  man's  empiri- 
cism, 163.  166;  affords  permis- 
sive conditions  for  new  species 
in  the  evolution  of  life  and 
literature,  164;  owes  more  to 
genius  than  genius  to  it,  169. 

Prose,  why  more  in  demand 
than  poetry,  117,  142;  the 
new  art  of,  272-283;  the 
modern  development  of  syn- 
chronous with  that  of  mod- 
ern music,  278. 

Public  Advertiser,  London,  "  Ju- 
nius's"  letters  in,  39. 

Publication,  early  forms  of,  be- 
fore printing,  3;  editions  of 
books  in  ancient  Rome,  5. 

Publicists  eminent  in  England 
a  century  earlier  than  on  the 
Continent,  7. 

Pyle,  Howard,  art  of,  51. 

Rambler,  the,  written  almost 
entirely  by  Dr.  Johnson,  iS; 
some  contributions  to,  by 
Samuel  Richardson,  18;  re- 
markable success  of,  in  six- 
volume  edition,  18. 

Rassetas,  by  Dr.  Johnson,  21; 
author's  profit   from,   96. 

Realism  :  the  modern  move- 
ment toward  reality  in  our 
knowledge  and  portrayal  of 
life,  143;  authors  illustrating 
this  tendency,  143;  reality 
disentangled  from  notions  or 
sophistication,  143;  realism 
of  modern  science,  144;  why 
realism  holds  us  mainly  to 
the  contemporaneous,  147, 
199;  does  not  exclude  legiti- 
inate  melodrama,  147;  reality 
not  distinguished  from  ap- 
pearances, which  are  indeed 
realization,  149;  realistic  fic- 


tion excludes  "views"  of 
life,  150;  reality  is  in  the 
particular  rather  than  the 
general,  in  the  individual 
rather  than  in  the  type,  150; 
real,  as  distinguished  from 
formal,  ethics  our  psychical 
physiognomy,  151  ;  realism 
not  merely  the  exaltation  of 
the  commonplace,  and  not 
opposed  to  idealism,  151,  152; 
more  in  the  feeling  of  the 
world  and  of  life  than  in  ac- 
curate description  of  these, 
1 52;  the  new  realism  in  litera- 
ture, 196-198;  why  realistic 
fiction  is  mainly  contempora- 
neous, 199;  the  first  realism, 
209-213;  narrow  limits  of  the 
imagination  in  this  primitive 
naturalism,  211  ;  Rousseau 
and  Nietzsche,  bewildering 
prophets  of  the  new  realism, 
220;  this  new  realism  created 
by  the  world  sense  of  the 
imagination  as  distinguished 
from  its  old  provincial  sense, 
221  ;  therefore  the  cosmo- 
politanism of  realism,  which 
makes  it  widely  and  wisely 
human,  221;  what eftects mod- 
ern realism  has  surrendered  or 
repudiated,  243 ;  not  a  "devel- 
opment of  plane  surfaces," 
243;  its  natural  chromatism, 
243, 244;  independence  of  tra- 
ditions, 265;  the  quality  of  its 
sympathy  that  of  a  vital  and 
natural  altruism;  its  psychi- 
cal kingdom  of  grace,  play, 
and  humor — the  expression 
of  the  bounty  of  genius,  266- 
271;  avoidance  of  formal  per- 
fection, 267;  spontaneity  in- 
separable from  reality,  268; 
the  inexplicable  idealism, 
270;  the  new  art  developed  in 
the  modern  realism,  272-282. 


317 


INDEX 


Reviews:  the  Museum,  Month- 
ly Review,  Critical  Review, 
Edinburgh  Review,  London 
Quarterly  Review,  20;  Fort- 
nightly Review,  37;  North 
American  Review,  43;  the 
New  York  Review,  edited  by 
Bryant,  46. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Johsua.  contrib- 
utor to  Johnson's  Idler,  19. 

Reinhart,  Charles,  art  of,  51. 

Richardson,  Samuel,  earliest 
English  society  novelist,  his 
Pamela,  14  ;  contributor  to 
Dr.  Johnson's  Rambler,  18; 
didacticism  of,   23. 

Ripley,  George,  conductor  of 
Brook  Farm  Dial,  47. 

Robertson,  Dr.  William,  the 
historian,  contributor  to  the 
Critical  Review,  20. 

Romanticism,  revival  of,  26,  57, 
115- 

Saturday  Review,  the  (1855), 

31- 

Schools,  in  eighteenth  century- 
England,  II. 

Science,  relation  of,  to  nine- 
teenth-century literature,  119, 
120;  realism  in,  144,  225;  a 
field  of  wonder,  164;  provin- 
cialism of  the  scientific  spe- 
cialist, 226. 

Scots  Magazine  continued  as  the 
Edinburgh  Magazine,  21. 

Scott,  John,  editor  of  London 
Magazine,    killed    in    duel, 

85. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  with  Byron, 
occupied  foreground  of  nine- 
teenth-century literature,  27; 
one  of  the  early  contributors 
to  the  Edinburgh  Review,  20; 
suggested  to  John  Murray 
the  establishment  of  the  Lon- 
don Quarterly  Review,  20;  the 
"Waverley"  disguise,  83. 


Scudder,  Horace  Elisha,  editor 
of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  52. 

Serial,  after  book  publication, 
Robinson  Crusoe.  Gray's  El- 
egy, Thomson's  Seasons,  8  ; 
later  instances,  8. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  with  By- 
ron and  Leigh  Hunt,  at  Leg- 
horn, planned  the  Liberal  the 
week  before  he  was  drowned. 

Simms,  William  Gilmore.  editor 
of  Charleston  City  Gazette,  41. 

Simple  life,  modern  idea  of — 
type  urban  rather  than  rural, 
248-259. 

Smith,  Goldwin,  contributor  to 
the  Saturday  Review,  3 1 . 

Smith,  Sydney,  one  of  the 
founders  and  the  first  editor 
of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  20; 
his  question,  "  Who  reads  an 
American  book?"  42. 

Smith,  William,  author  of 
Thorndale  and  Gravenhurst, 
34;  tribute  to  him  in  Black- 
wood's Magazine,  to  which 
he  had  contributed  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  articles,  34; 
at  twenty  contributed  to  the 
AthencEum.,  35;  Professor  Wil- 
son's first  choice  as  his  suc- 
cessor in  the  chair  of  Moral 
Philosophy  at  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity, 35.  _ 

Smollett,  Tobias,  19;  editor  of 
the  Critical  Review,  20;  his 
novel.  Sir  Lancelot  Greaves, 
published  serially  in  the  Brit- 
ish Magazine,  26. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  ed- 
ited by  Poe,  46. 

Southey,  Robert,  contributor  to 
the  Morning  Post,  39;  offered 
the  editorship  of  the  London 
Times,  40. 

Sparks,  Jared,  editor  of  the 
North  American  Review,  46. 

Spectator,  the,  9,  10,   11  ;  influ- 


318 


INDEX 


ence  of,  i  r ;  copied  entire  by 
Elizabeth  Montagu,  ii;  cir- 
culation of,  13. 

Spectator,  the,  London  literary 
weekly  (1828),  13. 

Steele,  Sir  Richard,  contributor 
to  the  Taller,  Spectator,  and 
Guardian,  9;  started  the  Tat- 
ler,  12. 

Sterling,  John,  associated  with 
F.  D.  Maurice  in  editorship 
of  the  Aihenccuni,  23. 

Sterne,  Laurence,  mock  senti- 
ment  of,    23. 

Stephen,  Sir  Leslie,  editor  of 
Cornhtll,  36. 

Stevenson,  Louis,  contributor  to 
Cornliill,  36;  to  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  38. 

Story,  William  Wetmore,  con- 
tributor to  the  Atlantic  Month- 
ly and  Blackwood's,  35. 

Study,  life  does  not  yield  itself 
to,  237;  dulls  sensibility  and 
leads  to  loose  thinking  and 
shallow  feeling,  238;  the  dia- 
gramtnatic   habit,    238. 

Swift,  as  a  pamphleteer,  7;  his 
connection  with  the  Exami- 
ner, 7;  contributor  to  the 
Spectator,  9. 

Talfourd,  Sir  Thomas,  con- 
tributor to  London  Magazine, 
29. 

Tatlcr,  the,  9,  10,  12. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  his  "Lucre- 
tius" published  in  Macmil- 
lan's, 38. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
early  offerings  declined  by 
Blackwood' s  Magazitie,  in 
which  he  never  published,  35; 
contributor  to  Frascr's,  36; 
editor  of  Cornliill,  36;  liter- 
ary critic  of  the  Times,  40  ; 
contributor  to  N.  P.  Willis's 
New  York  Corsair,  47;  pay- 


ments to,  in  Eraser's,  107; 
his  Yellowplush  Papers,  first 
published  in  book  -  form  in 
America,  258. 

Thirteenth  century,  wonderful 
achievements  of,  224;  con- 
test between  Pope  and  Em- 
peror, 224. 

Thomson,  James,  his  Seasons, 
serial  after  book  publication 
of,  8. 

Times,  London,  editorship  of, 
offered  to  Tom  Moore  and  to 
Southey,  40;  Laurence  Oli- 
phant  and  Richard  Monckton 
Milnes  regular  correspondents 
of,  40  ;  Thackeray  literary 
critic  of,  40. 

Token,  the,  annual,  published 
by  S.  G.  Goodrich  ("Peter 
Parley"),  contributed  to  by 
Bryant  and  Hawthorne,  46; 
edited  in  1829  by  N.  P.  Willis, 

Trevelyan,  Sir  George,  his  "  The 
Competition  Wallah, "  in  Mac- 
millans  Magazine,  38. 

Tribune,  New  York,  Margaret 
Fuller  contributor  to,  41. 

Trollope,  Anthony,  active  in  the 
establishment  of  the  Fortnight- 
ly Review',  3  7 ;  contributor  to 
Macmillan's,  38. 

United  States  Literary  Ga- 
zette, Boston,  Bryant's 
poems  in,  46. 

Urbanity,  the  modem,  248- 
259- 

Walpole,  Horace,  contributor 
to  the  World,  22;  inclination 
to  mediaivalism,  25;  prophetic 
characterization  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  27. 

«War,  now  denounced  by  the 
world  sense,  once  the  vehicle 
of  social  organization,  223. 


319 


INDEX 


Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry,  more 
than  any  other  novelist,  has 
assimilated  the  culture  of 
the  modern  world,  173;  mod- 
ernism a  passion  with  her, 
291. 

Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  his 
"My  Summer  in  a  Garden," 
in  the  Hartford  Courant,  54. 

Warren,  Samuel,  his  "  Diary  of 
a  Late  Physician"  and  "Ten 
Thousand  a  Year,"  serials  in 
Blackwood's,  34. 

Warton,  Joseph,  contributor  to 
the  Adventurer,  18;  protest  of, 
and  of  his  brother  Thomas, 
against  Pope's  supremacy, 
25;  leaning  of  both  toward 
Spenser  and  the  spirit  of  me- 
diaevalism,  25. 

Weekly  News,  London,  first  Eng- 
lish newspaper,  6. 

Wesley,  John,  and  the  Oxford 
revival,  24. 

West,  protest  and  attitude  of 
the,  toward  the  East  in  re- 
gard to  literature,  and  the 
effect  of  these,  58;  feminism 
of  culture  in,  58-64. 

Westmoreland  Gazette,  edited  for 
a  year  by  De  Quincey,  40. 

Whitefield,  George,  and  the  Ox- 
ford revival,  24. 

Whitman,  Walt,  printer,  editor, 
and  publisher  of  the  Long  Isl- 
ander, a  weekly  newspaper, 
48;  poems  in  the  Democratic 
Review,  the  Mirror,  the  New 
World,  48;  editor  of  the  Au- 
rora, Tatler,  and  Brooklyn 
Eagle,  48;  first  adopted  ir- 
regular metrical  forms  in  his 
antislavery  poems  in  the  New 
York  Tribune,  49. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  edi- 
tor of  the  Essex  Gazette,  41; 
contributor  to  Lowell's  Pio- 
neer, 47;  comment  on  Long- 


fellow's poem,  "The  Psalm 
of  Life,"  48. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker,  most 
picturesque  figure  in  ante- 
war  periodical  literature,  47; 
editor  of  "Peter  Parley's" 
Token  and  of  the  New  York 
Mirror,  47;  the  New  York 
Corsair  established  by,  47; 
association  with  the  New 
York  Home  Journal,  47. 

Will's  Coffee-House,  Dryden  a 
frequenter  of,  8,  15;  Pope 
as  a  boy  peeped  into,  for  a 
glimpse  of  Dryden,  15. 

Wilkes's  North  Briton,  22. 

Wordsworth,  William,  Hazlitt's 
criticism  of,  28;  sonnets  of,  in 
the  Morning  Chronicle,  40;  in- 
timate to  our  modernity,  277. 

World,  the,  "  written  by  gentle- 
men for  gentlemen,"  edited 
by  Edward  Moore,  and  con- 
tributed to  by  Chesterfield, 
Horace  Walpole,  and  Soame 
Jenyns,    22. 

World,  London  daily,  Robert 
Hichens  associated  with,  41. 

Wilson,  Professor  John,  associ- 
ated with  Blackwood' s  Maga- 
zine, 32. 

World  sense,  the,  first  develop- 
ed in  pilgrimages  to  shrines 
and  holy  places,  in  crusades 
and  knightly  quests,  218; 
the  mediaeval  world  sense  in 
politics,  218;  helped  to  make 
the  Renaissance  inevitable 
and  effective,  218;  the  world 
sense  of  the  imagination  has 
created  the  new  realism,  221; 
failure  of  special  organiza- 
tions to  express  the  world 
spirit  of  to-day,  222;  con- 
test between  Pope  and  Em- 
peror in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury marks  the  culmination 
of   world   politics   under   the 


320 


INDEX 


old  order,  224;  substitution 
of  national  for  world  poli- 
tics in  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries  not  a 
reversion  to  provincialism, 
225;  only  within  a  genera- 
tion have  we  had  that  clari- 
fied world  sense  of  which 
Matthew  Arnold  was  a  true 


apostle,  225;  effect  of  the 
progress  of  science,  225;  the 
world  sense  not  what  is 
called  common  -  sense,  227; 
it  is  the  true  historic  sense, 
227;  its  forward  look,  228, 
230,  231;  American  sensi- 
bility to  the  main  currents 
of  the  world's  life,  257,  258. 


THE    END 


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